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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511298">Together We Fell</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole'>Enterthetadpole</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud'>WritingOutLoud</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Communication, Collaboration, Complete, Do not post to another site, Embarassed!John, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Jealous!Sherlock, John is trying, Lack of Communication, Lestrolly is a thing, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, POV Multiple, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past and Present, Post-Break Up, References to Drugs, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, internalised biphobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:14:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>55,470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuelled with post-case adrenaline, Sherlock takes a risk and shows John Watson what he really wants. The pair fall into a whirlwind romance, filled with laughter, cases and lovemaking, but without a solid foundation to build on. </p><p>Six months later, John is left in the ruins, wondering where everything went wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HolmesCon Writers Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It’s the landing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to our wonderful beta, Chaserjinx8065</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>John: Present Day</b> </span>
</p><p>“This isn’t working.” John’s voice sounds loud in the room. Sherlock stills, his eyes fixed on the box of case files in front of him, avoiding John’s gaze. John almost repeats himself, unsure as to whether the detective has heard him, or if he’s just retreated into his mind palace. It’s happened before; Sherlock leaving in the middle of a conversation to recall some obscure fact or file away specific evidence. This routine is one of the largest reasons that this point has been reached, at least in John’s point of view.</p><p>“No, it’s not.” Sherlock finally says, relaxing his shoulders and letting out a shallow sigh. The artificial light from the kitchen turns everything a cold colour that reminds John of a hospital room. The poignancy isn’t lost on John. Sherlock still doesn’t meet John’s gaze, his eyes flickering over the piles of evidence, trying to find something, anything, to avoid looking up. </p><p>John waits and watches. It’s just another thing that he has always naturally done when it comes to Sherlock; wait for him to re-arrange whatever is happening into neat little piles for him to file away. Watch him be brilliant and everything extraordinary. </p><p>“We should talk about it a little more than this, don’t you think?”</p><p>The question gives Sherlock enough reason to look up from The Work. His ever-changing eyes are a darker blue than usual, cast in shadow by the light of the London sky, fading in the back window. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>John shuffles his feet to give himself an action to focus on. It isn’t enough.</p><p>“Because...it shouldn’t be this cut and dry, yeah? I mean, do you want to stay friends?”</p><p>“Of course.”  </p><p>“Well, then we can’t just go back to how things were after all that we’ve done. To each other. With each other. And if we are going to try to stay friends then...we need to know boundaries. Guidelines as to how to get back to where we were before.”</p><p>Sherlock tilts his head, and John’s heart does a similar movement in the centre of his chest. It’s unsettling and painful, but he stays as upright as he can. Ever the soldier, even now.  </p><p>“Are you moving out?” </p><p>“Do you want me to?” John asks, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. </p><p>Sherlock pauses, his eyes scanning John’s face. John wishes he had a manual for that incredible brain of his. That he could translate every firing neuron; understand exactly what Sherlock needs right now. Eventually, Sherlock blinks, a little more than necessary, and answers: “No.” </p><p>“Okay, then. We can work something out.” </p><p>Sherlock glances back down at the case files, and John stands there in the now deafening silence. He wasn’t expecting this to be easy at all, but a little bit of communication would do wonders right now. He clears his throat pointedly, but Sherlock continues to shuffle paperwork as if it is the most important thing in the universe. John can tell he’s not even reading it; he memorised the information days ago, he’s just looking for an excuse not to face the situation head-on. </p><p>“So, we should discuss what this means for us, right?” </p><p>“You move back into your old room. What else is there to discuss?”</p><p>“Sherlock, it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s not like we just stop having sex and everything’s back to how it was before.”</p><p>“Why not? That’s the only thing that will have changed. We live and dine together. We chase down criminals for The Work. You're a bit slower but that’s hardly your fault. We tolerate each other’s siblings...so what else would need to be adjusted, other than us routinely having intercourse?”</p><p>“Jesus,” John pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.. “Relationships aren’t just sex, you know.” </p><p>Sherlock’s brow furrows, but John doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t have the energy for this. Not today. It’s taking all the effort he has to do this at all. It’s not like he wants to end their relationship; it’s just that he can’t take Sherlock’s hot and cold nature anymore. Not knowing what version of Sherlock he’ll be dealing with on the other side of 221b. His heart and mind can’t take the constant weariness. Not as his romantic partner. </p><p>This isn’t how breakups have happened to John, ever. Usually, there are a lot more raised voices and crying. Is this part of what being with a male partner is about, or is this only Sherlock? He wouldn’t know.</p><p>“You’re thinking very loudly,” Sherlock mutters as he turns his attention once more to the paperwork surrounding him.  “You and I were romantically involved, and now we’re not. We’re not teenagers, John. The need for dramatic gesticulations and assigning blame is beneath us.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess so.” </p><p>Silence falls between them, punctured only by the occasional rustling of Sherlock turning a page. The noise is maddening.</p><p>“Is that everything?” Sherlock asks, barely breaking concentration. A stab of anger flashes through John’s stomach. Is that it? Six months of sharing a bed, ended in an almost business-like transaction? He’d expected — well, he’s not sure what he’d expected. Shouting, maybe? Either way, he hadn’t expected such a perfunctory conclusion. A gentle termination of their relationship as if it were a contract. Then again, this is Sherlock. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. </p><p>“Yeah, that’s — everything.” John stands, his fists curling loosely at his sides, unsure of what to do. There was no guide for this. “I’m, uh, gonna get some air.”  He grabs his jacket from the rack, swallowing back the ache in his throat. </p><p>“I’ll put your things upstairs.” The sentence stops John short. He wanted this, hell, he’d been the one to initiate it, but something about the visual of Sherlock packing the remnants of their relationship into a box is like a kick in the teeth. Sherlock is still in the same dressing gown that John had pushed off his shoulders only a few days ago. Just 72 hours removed from what was so wondrous when everything lined into place.</p><p>When everything worked, it was like Sherlock playing the violin. Soulful and passionate and so painfully gorgeous. John suspects the reason they lasted so long to begin with was that the good times were just so perfect — golden snapshots amongst the greyscale of his life. The problem was, those golden moments were becoming few and far between. They were interrupted by foundation-shaking arguments about the smallest of things, cold-shoulders and half-built walls; remnants of past failed relationships.</p><p>“Yeah, okay.” John lets the door swing shut behind him. He shudders once the night air hits him from all sides. All of the warmth is back the way he came, even with his coat, but it isn’t worth going back for anything now. </p><p>He moves forward because it’s the only option. The pub is only a few blocks north, with lots of distractions. Football matches and cheers from blokes on barstools. He might even get into a good conversation or two before his head becomes too fuzzy with beer. </p><p>Almost in spite of himself, he turns to look at the flat for long enough to see the light from his old bedroom shining bright. Sherlock isn't wasting any time with taking the few items John has to where they now belong. Efficient to a fault. That’s Sherlock with all parts of his life; John’s  too.</p><p>Before he can change his mind, he unlocks his phone and dials Lestrade’s number. John doesn’t want to tell him, not yet, but he also doesn’t want to be alone. He’s not sure how strong his resolve is; if he went back to the flat after a couple of drinks, he might well fall back into Sherlock’s bed. </p><p>“John...what the bloody…” </p><p>The sound of a mobile phone crashing to the ground meets John’s ear, followed by the unmistakable sound of the DI cursing with the might of all of Scotland Yard. John sighs as he checks the time on his phone. It’s still fairly early in the evening, but Greg was obviously asleep before John’s phone call. </p><p>“Sorry,” Greg grunts as the phone is up to his ear again. “This serial homicide case has me exhausted. Trying to catch a few winks before I end up falling over completely.”</p><p>John winces at the decision to make the phone call. </p><p>“Did Sherlock get a new lead with the case? Must be a good one if you’re calling me up instead of him texting. What you got for me?”</p><p>The relief in Greg’s voice is going to be shattered, and for once, it isn’t Sherlock doing it. How very strange indeed. </p><p>“I...this isn’t about the case. It’s about...just fancied a pint and wanted to have a mate with me to chat. You sound really knackered though, so I’ll just —“</p><p>“No,” Lestrade says quickly, and John hears the squeak of an ancient mattress as Greg appears to be getting out of his bed. “I’m fine for a night out. Been ages since I did anything after nightfall not connected with work. Which pub are you heading to?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>John stumbles up the stairs, trying and failing to stay quiet, as not to disturb Mrs Hudson downstairs. The floor swims before him as he makes his way across the living room, unceremoniously dumping his jacket on the sofa. His shirt goes with it, crumpled to the floor without care. It isn’t until his hand is on the doorknob that he realises his mistake. </p><p>The room before him is no longer his own. </p><p>John sinks forwards, resting his forehead against the polished wood. He’d almost forgotten. For three glorious hours, he had convinced himself that nothing had changed, that the detective at home was still his. </p><p>John lets out a long breath, swallowing against the hard lump that has formed in his throat. A large part of him wants to open the door anyway — to sneak under the covers and pretend nothing ever happened. To hold the miles of arms and legs of a grumpy consulting detective against him until Sherlock sighed into the crook of his neck and they both drifted to sleep.</p><p>If he lets his mind wander, he can almost imagine that Sherlock is on the other side, waiting for John to come in. Perhaps this was a mistake. They could get through this, if they tried. He could get used to Sherlock’s abrasive nature during cases, if that’s what it took to be in the detective’s embrace again.</p><p>No. He can’t fall into that trap. </p><p>It takes all the self-restraint he has to step away from the door and make his way upstairs. The light illuminates his pathway to a life he thought had gone past all of this, and yet, here he is once more. His old bedroom seems colder than usual as he enters, and in a small pile at the foot of the bed are the three pairs of pants and a couple of shirts that, up until now, had found a home in Sherlock’s top dresser drawer. For someone so meticulous about his own clothes, he showed little care for John’s. </p><p>“He got me out in a hurry all right,” John murmurs to the room. “So much for sentiment, the bastard...”</p><p>He slowly peels off his clothes and crawls into bed, the blanket of alcohol heavy on his brain. He tries to close his eyes and sleep, but each time he does, they spring open again, and he is left feeling more awake than before. In the end, he settles for memorising the cracks in the ceiling, willing exhaustion to rear its head. He’s usually a master at getting to sleep, no matter the time or place. It was a residual habit from the army, one that came in useful when Sherlock insisted on staying awake for days,  himself up in the lab at Barts. John would often fall asleep on the chairs, and Molly had joked that they should build a bed in there. Even on stakeouts, John would nap on Sherlock’s shoulder, taking the opportunity to rest where he could, knowing that the next chance could be hours away. </p><p>So, why could he not sleep now? </p><p>At first, he thinks it’s the alcohol — one beer too many keeping him awake, but then he readjusts his position, and realises. </p><p>The bed is unfamiliar. </p><p>He’s not slept here for at least six months, and the spring mattress feels completely different to Sherlock’s memory foam. The pillows are awkward too; polyester rather than goose feather. They’re subtle differences, but it’s enough to catch his body off guard. Normally, he could deal with it. During the few cases they’ve had outside of London, he’s never had any problem drifting off in unfamiliar sheets. He’s not fussy. As long as it’s a somewhat horizontal space, he’ll take it, but the bed just feels so empty. </p><p>John can’t remember the last time he slept alone. Not since those dark intrusive thoughts inside that horrible bedsit, before he met the man who would turn his life upside down in the most brilliant and maddening of ways. </p><p>Okay, there were the nights when Sherlock would stay up all night for cases, but even then, he wouldn’t be far away. John had sunk into the habit of kipping on the sofa, only an arm’s length away, in case he was needed. There is something different about knowing Sherlock is in an entirely different room.</p><p>John sighs into the empty space, his chest aching with the loss. It hadn’t hit him before; the finality of it. He knew what he was asking for, when he’d initiated the conversation downstairs, but he hadn’t fully appreciated its consequences. Sherlock may think that ending a relationship only means refraining from sex, but John knows better. They will never share a bed again, for sex or sleep. His nights will be spent alone, without the detectives long slender body to keep him warm. John won’t be able to run his fingers through those dark curls, or slide his feet into Sherlock’s lap. There will be a barrier between them: one John knows will be hard to keep. </p><p>Not for the first time that night, he wonders whether he made the right decision. He still wants to be with Sherlock; he knows he does. A twinge of regret pulls at his stomach. Should he have suggested alternatives than just a complete breakup? Could they have made it work, if John was more open to compromise? No. No matter whether or not Sherlock knew the true depth of John’s feeling, this relationship was doomed to fail, even if John wished otherwise. Because between all the good times, the adrenaline fuelled chases across London, the lazy Sunday mornings, wrapped in sheets; were the moments when Sherlock would dismiss him without a care. John had lost count of the number of times he’d brought up a new interest, a television show he’d enjoyed, or a fun recipe he’d discovered, only to have Sherlock put him down. Say that John was wasting time with silly interests. In the end, John stopped sharing altogether. </p><p>Sometimes it felt as if the only thing they had in common were the cases. Even then, they were dominated by Sherlock. Sure, John relishes the chases, adores watching Sherlock’s mind at work, but he isn’t convinced his presence is necessary. If he walked away, Sherlock could function just as well without him, maybe better. </p><p>No, this was the right thing to do, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. John needs his life back; needs to feel like his own man again. Whatever that means. He just hopes he can do that without losing Sherlock completely. </p><p>If they can handle this in the middle of one of the most involved cases they have ever dealt with, then they can get through anything. It will take time and patience, but they always push through everything together. They can be friends, and nothing more. </p><p>"Nothing more," John repeats, and turns onto his side. The darkness is oppressive around him, but he closes his eyes and tries to will away the image of how Sherlock's lips look in the moonlight, on those rare occasions that Sherlock falls asleep before him. They can do this, he promises himself. They can survive. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Ascent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six months earlier</b> </span>
</p><p>It wasn’t anything planned, and that was the start of the problem. The case was one of the most thrilling that they'd ever been part of, and their defences dropped among the tremendous insanity of really almost being killed this time. Perhaps that’s why they were still laughing when they raced up the stairs of 221b, the slam of the door slightly muffled from their giggles. </p><p>Sherlock huffed out a breath and inhaled the scents of home, John, and everything spectacular. John sighed, and then swallowed hard. He shifted his weight so that he leaned heavily on the first bit of wall that caught him. </p><p>“That was brilliant,” John wheezed. “Bloody all of it...”</p><p>Sherlock grinned as he began to try and take off his coat. The streets of London still clung onto the fibres, and he never wanted this night to end. John smiled back in the way that Sherlock’s mind palace had stored in the deepest section. The same look that Sherlock had first seen when they sat across from each other at Angelo’s, and that meant more than anything now.</p><p>Before Sherlock could second-guess himself, he dropped his coat to the floor and strode forward, closing the gap between them. Shock gathered in John’s eyes, just for a moment, before Sherlock surged forward, and captured John’s mouth in his. John hesitated for a millisecond, before he moved towards Sherlock in the semi-darkness, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. <em> Perfect fit </em>. They had always fit, and now they had to make up for all of that lost time.</p><p>Sherlock pushed forward again, his hands frantically roaming the doctor’s body, hungrily working his mouth open. John’s head hit the wall, but he didn’t pull away; instead, he wrapped his hands around the detective’s waist and pulled him even closer. Heat swelled up into the kiss; a steady glow of burning need that had John hitch a breath into Sherlock’s open mouth. </p><p>It was an eruption of sounds, and Sherlock couldn’t care less if it was himself or John that was making them. He only knew that he needed more. More skin on skin contact. More of John’s fingers digging into his curls and tugging them like a lifeline. More of this. All of this. </p><p>“What are we…” John began, but Sherlock swallowed the rest of the words with his tongue. He wrapped his long arms around John’s torso and squeezed until John’s knees buckled underneath them.</p><p>They swayed until they somehow made their way into the kitchen. Sherlock lifted John onto  the table, desperate to remove the height difference. A pile of papers slid to the floor, exploding into a flurry of noise as they hit the tile. The sound mixed with John’s moans, heady and deep as Sherlock’s clever fingers unzipped his fly. He paused, his hand hovering over John’s underwear, the fabric wet with pre-come. </p><p>“Is this okay?” He asked breathlessly. John replied by pulling Sherlock’s hand forward and slipping it beneath the waistband of his pants. They both gasped at the touch, and John’s head fell onto Sherlock’s shoulder, both hands now gripping his waist.  </p><p>“I need to catalogue what happens,” Sherlock whispered into John’s neck. John gasped as Sherlock gently brushed  the tip of his cock with his thumb. “Need to know what makes your pupils blow wide and moan out my name. Tell me, John…”</p><p>John’s head lolled to the right to meet the centre of Sherlock’s chest. The doctor’s fingers grasped onto Sherlock’s lapels and pulled him even closer. His hands were shaking with the effort to just hold on for dear life as Sherlock stroked him to a mind-splitting climax. His mouth hung open as Sherlock watched him; explored him with the keen eyes created for this type of indescribable scrutiny.</p><p>“Oh fuck...oh holy f—“</p><p>Another kiss and John exploded over Sherlock’s beautiful hands. The weight of ecstasy was everywhere for them to deal with in some other galaxy, where things like clean up actually mattered. </p><p>“Shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen so soon.” </p><p>“It’s okay,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear, gently letting go of John’s cock and unzipping his own fly. He only slipped a few fingers beneath the waistband before John caught his wrist. </p><p>“What are you doing? Let me…” </p><p>“I thought you might not want to—” </p><p>“Shh,” John silenced him with a kiss, slower than before, but charged with the same greedy hunger. Sherlock let his hands fall to John’s thighs, running his thumbs up the inside, towards his crotch. John shuddered at the contact, his muscles tensing beneath Sherlock’s fingertips. John wanted this. John wanted this and <em> him </em>.</p><p>Sherlock expected John to reach forward and take him in hand, so was surprised when the doctor slid from the table, his trousers falling around his thighs. John broke the kiss, working his way along Sherlock’s jawline and down his neck, before sinking to his knees. He looked up, the silent question burning in his eyes, and Sherlock nodded, praying that his knees wouldn’t give way.  </p><p>He made a breathy noise at the first touch of John’s lips around him. Sherlock never expected John to be a tentative lover. He had witnessed the many conquests of ‘Three Continents Watson’ slink out of the flat the following morning. Most of them were still pink-faced from the previous night’s activities, but nevertheless full of a deep-rooted satisfaction that Sherlock had only fantasised he would ever experience firsthand. </p><p>Yet here John knelt, his mouth engulfing him and sliding up to the hilt. His soft humming noises created vibrations that made Sherlock’s long toes curl up inside his shoes as fought for some semblance of control. </p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, despite his fierce need to stay silent. “I...oh…”</p><p>John rolled his tongue around the base as his hands gripped Sherlock’s arse and caressed in a circular motion. The rush of arousal broke over Sherlock’s body over and over again as he placed his hands into the short golden hair and gave a tiny thrust. </p><p>A sound of approval met Sherlock’s ears, and he swivelled his hips for a second time. His testicles twitched in warning, and Sherlock groaned as he allowed John to pull him into pieces. </p><p>“John, I...wait...I…”</p><p>Sherlock was babbling now, and he hated himself for that. He didn’t know how to formulate his sentences enough to tell John that he was going to come. A warning was needed for this, and yet his mind was offline and blissfully blank. He had forgotten how this felt, the blissful silence of his brain, rushing with dopamine and oxytocin. Each neuron was fluttering, focused only on the sensation of John’s mouth on his cock. Gone were the usual frenzy of thoughts, the constant barrage of information; useless deductions and errant case notes. His mind could relax, focused only on his army-doctor. </p><p>“It’s fine,” John muttered. “It’s all fine. I want you to.” He took Sherlock into his mouth again, sinking all the way to the base, swirling his tongue around the shaft as he did so. One more sensual lick, and Sherlock came, his muscles contracting in waves as his hands fisted into John’s hair. </p><p>They stayed silent for a moment after, John’s forehead resting in the soft expanse of Sherlock’s belly, the detective’s hands running through John’s hair. </p><p>“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” Sherlock murmured, brushing a thumb along John’s cheek. </p><p>He heard John’s high pitched giggle again, the sound ruffling the hair within Sherlock’s pelvic region. He giggled back in return. </p><p>“You may have to carry me to my bed.”</p><p>Sherlock slinked his hands down onto John’s trembling shoulders. “Mine is closer. If you prefer it.”</p><p>It was a calculated risk. One that Sherlock measured in milliseconds until John tilted his head and gave a genuine smile. “Yeah...I like that idea.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock woke with a start. It took a moment for his brain to re-engage and realise what had woken him—a hand had wrapped its way around his waist. He stared at it for a moment, synaptic nerves firing at a hundred miles an hour, before he remembered the events of the night before. John, in his bed, squirming over the sheets as Sherlock ran his tongue along the rim of his arse, one hand grasped on the hard line of his cock. More memories for the John inhabited shelves of his mind palace.</p><p>He smiled, shuffling backwards so their bodies lay flush against each other. He hadn’t been sure if this would happen—the casual physicality outside of sex. It wasn’t like he had much experience with it. Most of his other encounters had ended the moment they reached orgasm, both parties hastily cleaning themselves up and returning to their own lives. This, this was new. </p><p>Sherlock lifted John’s hand and entwined it with his fingers, relishing the feeling of skin against skin. </p><p>“Mornin’” John murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder blades, making him jump slightly. </p><p>Soft kisses settled along the lining of Sherlock’s spine as John travelled north, until he reached the nape of Sherlock’s neck and settled there. Sherlock moaned as he turned in John’s embrace and witnessed John’s eyes open up into the early sunrise. </p><p>“You’re still here,” Sherlock said in a rush, and John laughed.</p><p>“Should I not be?” </p><p>The question had intentions that Sherlock didn’t know how to grasp, so he chose not to respond. That was usually the best approach in these types of moments. </p><p>“Fancy a fry up?” John suggested. “I’m sure you’re just as famished as me after last night, and earlier this morning too. I should serve you breakfast in bed after what your mouth did to me…”</p><p>Sherlock felt his own cock throb at the memory of what his mouth could indeed do, and what John’s mouth happily did in return. </p><p>There were deductions that Sherlock had made regarding John’s sexuality. Anyone who shouted to anybody within earshot how ‘<em> Not Gay’ </em>they were always had hidden motives or secret agendas. And Sherlock had seen the way John looked at him--John may have thought he’d covered his botched flirting attempt during their first case at Angelo’s, but Sherlock knew better. He just hadn’t anticipated that John would ever admit it to himself. Sherlock had never imagined that John’s heterosexuality would peel away with the layers of their clothing, and the newly uncovered bisexuality be so comfortable in its nakedness. </p><p>“Please,” The bed felt surprisingly empty as John crawled out, fishing Sherlock’s housecoat off the chair in the corner. Their clothes had been long abandoned in the kitchen, both desperate to touch skin-to-skin, unable to wait until they had crossed the threshold to the bedroom. They had almost gotten off against the doorway, but John had had the sense to pull them inside and onto the bed before their knees had buckled beneath them. </p><p>The sounds of pots and pans clinking together drifted through the open doorway, shortly followed by John’s out-of-tune singing. Sherlock smiled into the pillow, his stomach flipping with an unrecognisable emotion. No-one had ever done this before. No-one had stayed past morning light, let alone made him breakfast. He felt out of his depth, unsure as to where the boundaries lay. He had perfected sex—practised and memorised each flick of the wrist, every thrust of his hips that would elicit a specific reaction. He knew exactly where his abilities lay, exactly how to get what he wanted from each encounter, but this—this he had no clue. Was he expected to reciprocate? To make breakfast the next time, or carry out some romantic gesture? He wasn’t sure if he was capable. Yet, part of him wanted to try. That was new too. The caring. He hadn't felt that in a long time. </p><p>In an attempt to rectify all of these racing thoughts, Sherlock did what came most natural. He shuffled onto his back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin and refiled all of the most cluttered evidence.</p><p>John was bisexual, or at least somewhere on that spectrum; deduction proven both in generalised hypothesis and in practical application. </p><p>John was sexually attracted to Sherlock; deduction proven in expediency to a startling degree. </p><p>John stayed the morning after sexual activities with Sherlock. No deduction able to be theorised due to potentiality for rejection. New data obtained, but further research and experimentation required for a more well-rounded conclusion. </p><p>“You’re in your mind palace early today.”</p><p>Sherlock opened his eyes to see John standing next to the bed, holding two plates in his hands. They were piled up with scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and what looked like a well-intentioned attempt at pancakes. </p><p>“We didn't have any sausages or beans, so I made pancakes instead. And, yeah...I’m a bit dodgy on the proper batter pouring technique for a skillet,” John grumbled, but he still had a smile. “Eat up, you madman. All that extracurricular activity must have you famished.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the day passed by slowly, both revelling in each other's company. They eventually got out of bed around noon, not bothering to change out of their pyjamas, and Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon playing his violin, with John listening from the sofa. There was nothing new about the interaction. Sherlock had played for John many times before, but now there was static electricity in the air, an underlying tension that hadn’t been there before. At first, Sherlock thought it was the sexual tension, but as time passed he wasn’t sure. </p><p>It was unnerving, the unspoken longing. He’d never felt it before, and it bothered him that he couldn’t quite identify it. His brain ran in circles, analysing it to death, trying to understand what was different this time. What was different about John?</p><p>He stayed that way for a while, his brain spinning and spinning, until John placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock jumped at the touch; he hadn’t noticed him get up. </p><p>“You look lost in thought. Come have dinner?” </p><p>Sherlock nodded, carefully placing his violin back in the case, forcing himself to focus on the task in hand rather than letting his brain run wild. It was only during the dessert of apple pie, made courtesy of Mrs Hudson, that Sherlock began to relax once more. The need to go over the particulars of the day slowed down to just relishing the warmth of John sitting beside him on the sitting room sofa. John leaned over, grinning stupidly as Sherlock explained a mould experiment gone wrong from earlier in the week. </p><p>“So the spores ended up completely unusable,” Sherlock explained. “Two and a half weeks' work destroyed in a few minutes. As if it was so important for Mycroft to text me about some stupid issue he had with his gardener.”</p><p>John nodded absently, and Sherlock gave a small huff. </p><p>“Are you paying attention to what I’m saying at all, John? This is important research into the sporing reactions of—“</p><p>“You have a little bit of pie…” John began and then paused as he moved right over to Sherlock on the sofa. “On the corner of your mouth...right there.”</p><p>Sherlock only connected that John was kissing that same bit of pie off after being pushed into the leather cushions. John straddled his hips as Sherlock opened his lips to John’s insistent tongue, and the conversation regarding mould spores laid forgotten. </p><p>John began to move his hips, grinding against the top of Sherlock’s thigh, until Sherlock shifted to allow their crotches to lie flush against each other. They both let out a lewd groan, and John quickened the pace, his hands finding a resting place on the curves of Sherlock’s arse. </p><p>“Wait—” Sherlock gasped into John’s lips, sliding his hands down to the doctor’s waist. He slipped his trousers down, pants and all, until John’s cock bobbed free against his stomach. </p><p>“Not fair. You too.” John mimicked the action, Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms slipping down far more easily than John’s jogging pants. They continued to move, desperate to create more friction, barely stopping to push up Sherlock’s cotton undershirt. “Christ, how can everything about you be this fucking gorgeous?”</p><p>Sherlock tried to respond, but found himself unable to do anything more than moan. John’s skilful hands were in every area built for giving him pleasure, and he needed more. </p><p>Without warning, the living room door swung open to reveal a panicked Lestrade, panting slightly from the staircase. </p><p>“Are you two okay? You’ve not been answering your phone—” He stopped short as he absorbed every part of the scene in front of him. His mouth dropped open, and his dark eyes widened at John writhing on top of a very aroused Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>John lept from the sofa, one hand covering his quickly wilting erection, the other scrambling across the floor for his trousers. A deep scarlet blush was creeping up John’s neck, followed by him yelping as he shot a glance back at Sherlock, who was still incredibly nude on the sofa. The same sofa on which, only a week ago, the DI had consoled the doctor regarding another first date gone wrong. </p><p>Sherlock merely sighed and lifted himself onto his elbows, making no effort to cover his body. </p><p>“A knock would have been preferable, Lestrade."</p><p>“Yes, I um—I’ll be outside," Greg stuttered, his eyes darting around the room, trying to look anywhere but the six-foot of naked consulting detective, draped casually over the sofa. He stumbled back out of the flat, the door clicking shut behind him. </p><p>Sherlock glanced over to where John was hunched on the floor, his jeans now bunched into a ball in front of his crotch. </p><p>“Are you alright?” He asked softly, finally sitting up and setting his feet onto the floor. He was surprised, however, at the giggle that erupted from John’s mouth. </p><p>“John?” </p><p>The giggle gave way to a cackle, and Sherlock couldn’t help but echo it. They both erupted into roars of laughter, and Sherlock clutched at his sides with the effort. </p><p>“So much for gently easing our friends into this new part of our relationship, hmm?” John gasped between chuckles. </p><p>Sherlock giggled even harder. “I beg to differ...Lestrade seemed to get the general idea of you easing into me fairly well. “</p><p>“I can still hear you, you know!” Lestrade shouted from behind the closed door, but it only caused them to laugh harder.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Smokescreen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>John: Present day</strong> </span>
</p><p>John sniffs the air and immediately regrets it. The unfortunately familiar scent of death enters his nostrils and he frowns as he sees the DI shuffle over to him with an extra coffee in hand. </p><p>“Sorry to spring this on you and Sherlock so last minute,” Greg mutters. His salt and pepper hair flutters in the chilly morning wind. </p><p>John waves away the apology with his free hand. “It gets us out of the flat and stops him from finding more human body parts to put in the fridge. Win-win all around.”</p><p>Greg huffs out a laugh. Sherlock paces roughly ten metres away, his coat billowing behind him as the murder victim lies flat on his back on the asphalt. The untamed curls bounce in time with the long strides as the detective moves back and forth as he collects pieces of information for later deductions. John can tell that he’s cursing due to the deeply low grumblings and thinks it best to keep his distance.</p><p>“This is connected with the case we’re already working on?” </p><p>“Similar location and manner of death,” Greg confirms. “Except this bloke got in a few hits before he was strangled. Defense wounds on the palms of his hands. Molly should be able to verify, but always good to get Sherlock in before we move the body. Stops him from screaming at us later on.”</p><p>John quirks an eyebrow at Greg’s profile, and the DI nearly snorts into his coffee. </p><p>“Right...screaming happens regardless, but a man can dream can’t he, John?”</p><p>Sherlock swivels on the spot and shoots death glares directly at John and Greg. “Would you both be better served by doing other things than chattering behind me whilst I’m working?”</p><p>John sighs as he pulls at Greg’s arm a little further down the pathway and out of Sherlock’s field of vision. He’s already prepared himself for the question Greg is about to ask once they stop walking again. </p><p>“Is everything alright between you two? He usually only spits dragon fire at me during his deductions.”</p><p>“No, but we don’t need to talk about it now.” </p><p>This isn’t the end of the conversation at all, and John bloody well knows it. Even if Greg wasn’t a detective himself, they have been friends for long enough for Greg to want to know more. For a few minutes they seem to be biding their time, the only sounds between them sips of coffee. John searches for a Sherlock-free topic, and struggles to find one. How has Sherlock become so much a part of everything he thinks and does?</p><p>“You broke up, didn’t you?” </p><p>John’s stomach clenches into a knot and he glances up at Lestrade. </p><p>“Not all of us can be like Sherlock,” Greg continues. “But I’m not an incompetent. It’s practically written all over you both.” </p><p>Evidently, John’s ability to keep their breakup quiet for at least a few days was just as successful as keeping the start of it hushed up. At least to Greg it seems. </p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>Greg is looking at him too intently for John to even try to soften the blow. </p><p>“The night I phoned you to go out to the pub.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, mate...that was almost a week ago. And you didn’t say anything about it?”</p><p>The chastising is fair, and that’s part of why John hates it so much. He should be doing what Ella had advised all those sessions ago; turn to his friends when bad things happen, and not keep his pain bottled up until it cracks under the pressure. </p><p>“He’s going to be a nightmare, you know.” </p><p>“Like he wasn’t already.” John laughs.</p><p>Lestrade gives a soft chuckle, adjusting his coat collar. “Very true. Are you two still going to live together?” </p><p>“Yeah, we wanted to stay friends.”</p><p><br/>Greg narrows his eyes, and John watches him check to assure that Sherlock is still out of easy hearing range. </p><p>“Is that wise?” Greg asks, and John shoots him a sideways glance. “No, sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant...are you sure you can do this? After everything? I mean, you shot a man for him.” </p><p>John raises an eyebrow, a sly smile reaches his lips. “You’re not supposed to know about that.” He sighs, pushing his left hand into his trouser pocket. “That’s exactly why I have to try. We’ve been through so much already, surely there’s still something worth fighting for.” </p><p>There’s a pregnant pause. John can sense that Lestrade is holding back, trying to step delicately around the grieving doctor. John knows how he sounds, and if he were in Greg’s shoes, he’d probably tell himself to get a grip. But it isn’t that simple. Yes, they didn’t work romantically, but surely there is still something there? If they take romance off the table, maybe they can find the right balance. John can protect himself, overlook their shortcomings, without the expectation for something more. </p><p>“I don’t want to lose him, Greg. I know it’s stupid. He’s insufferable, and selfish, and so many other enraging adjectives, but God, I adore all of it. We just — we don’t work as romantic partners anymore. But I’m not ready to lose him yet. Not completely.” </p><p>Lestrade gives John a weary smile and places his hand on John’s shoulder. </p><p>“I get it, John. I do. When my wife left, I just wanted her around, in whatever way possible. Just, be careful, John. Sometimes it’s not that easy.” </p><p>“I will.” </p><p>As if the world needs to remind the two men that problems still exist, there is the unmistakable sound of what Sherlock Holmes is like when he is at his wit’s end. John and Greg race towards the danger without a second thought, because they are the only ones around to deal with a self-described sociopath with a flare for the dramatics. </p><p>“What’s going on?” Lestrade asks breathlessly, his eyes flickering between the detective and Anderson, both sporting thunderous looks.  </p><p>“He had the audacity to spout out his inane theory about the case,” Sherlock spat out. “As if I needed any assistance that has his fingerprints all over it.”</p><p>Anderson crosses his arms and makes a deliberate decision to not look at Sherlock at all when he speaks. “My deductions are just as valid as anyone here...including his.”</p><p>“How about you stick to the job you’re paid to be incompetent at!” Sherlock spits, tugging at his curls.</p><p>“Woah, dial it down guys, this is a crime-scene. Anderson, take a break.” Lestrade says sharply, and takes a measured step towards the arguing pair to cement his statement.</p><p>“What? But he— ” </p><p>“I said, take a break.” </p><p>Anderson huffs and stalks off, cursing inaudibly under his breath. Sherlock keeps tugging at his curls, red anger contorting his face into unrecognisable shapes. John’s stomach flips; he’s never seen Sherlock this angry before. Not even when he’d accidentally thrown out his three week long mould experiment. </p><p>“Sherlock,” John takes a step towards the detective, “Are you okay?” </p><p>“I’m fine.” Sherlock spits again, visibly recoiling from John. What had Anderson said to make him so worked up? “I have all I need here. Send me anything else you find that Anderson hasn’t ruined.” With that, he stalks off towards the road, hailing a cab as he walks. </p><p>John bids a quick farewell to Lestrade, apologising for the outburst, before following Sherlock. He rehearses sentences in his head, racking his brain for ways to make Sherlock open up without pissing him off even more. It’s pointless, however, because as soon as he reaches the taxi, the door slams in front of him and drives off without so much as a glance backwards from the detective.</p><p>“Bastard,” John curses, looking up and down the road for another cab. </p><p>“That boyfriend of yours needs house training.” Anderson sneers from behind him. John turns to see the forensic technician standing a few metres away, his hands in his pockets. </p><p><em> Boyfriend</em>. </p><p>Was that what had upset Sherlock? Ever since it had been let slip to Anderson that Sherlock and John were together, the man had not been able to let it go. Hardly a case went by without him commenting on their relationship status, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. It hasn’t bothered John before, he’s become fairly adept at shutting these things out, but it must have been the last straw for Sherlock. Instinctively, John wants to ask Sherlock directly to see if his theory holds any water, but is that even really his place now to do? Maybe. They are still trying to be friends, after all. Weren’t they?</p><p>Finally, John manages to hail a cab, and as it pulls up in front of him, he turns to address the technician behind him. </p><p>“Fuck off, Anderson.” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>By the time John arrives at 221b, he is fifteen minutes behind the detective. John has no idea what state he’ll find him in, or how to diffuse the situation if he’s no better than before. </p><p>John takes the stairs two at a time, his spine straightening as the adrenaline kicks into his system. He bursts through the door, barely stopping for breath, and immediately seeks out the detective.</p><p>“Sherlock, what was all that — are you smoking?” John stops in his tracks at the sight of the detective, half hanging out the window, a smoldering cigarette perched between his slender fingers. He’s already changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown and it’s wrong that even now, when John has no idea what’s about to happen next, how gorgeous Sherlock looks in his robe. Especially with the backdrop of London behind him in the window. </p><p>“Yes.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a puff, throwing his head to the sky and slowly exhaling the smoke, as if making a point. </p><p>“Sherlock, you know those things will kill you.” </p><p>“I’m aware. Besides, John, why do you care? You’re not my boyfriend.” </p><p>“No, but I am your friend.”</p><p>“Are you?” John’s heart skips a beat, and when it resumes, it pounds against his ribcage, making it difficult to catch his breath. </p><p>“Sorry?” </p><p>“Don’t make me repeat myself.”</p><p>“Why would you say that? Of course I’m your friend. I said I still wanted to be.” </p><p>Sherlock lets out a deep sigh, stubbing out the cigarette on the outside wall and slamming the window shut. </p><p>“John, you barely say a word to me at home, you retreat to your bedroom as early in the evening as you can, and at crime scenes you spend all your time speaking to Lestrade. I may not be the best at subtlety, but even I can tell that you don’t want me around.” </p><p>Had he been doing that? John hasn’t consciously been avoiding the detective, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that he’s been finding excuses not to be alone with Sherlock. Each time they find themselves alone, John has to work harder and harder to keep himself in check. If anyone had asked, he would have never said they were an overly affectionate couple, but he hadn’t realised until now just how much they would casually touch. The loss feels like an hole in his heart, one he’s not sure how to fill.</p><p>In the beginning, a few days after the break-up, Sherlock had called John over to the kitchen table, where he sat at his microscope. John had hovered behind him, leaning forward to look down the lens and casually placed his hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. It was a familiar movement, one he had done hundreds of times before, but he was startled at how Sherlock immediately tensed beneath his palm. </p><p>“Shit, sorry. Habit.” John had apologised profusely. Sherlock had waved him off, acting as if it were no big deal, but John had carried the weight of the encounter around with him for the rest of the day. Each time he blinked, he could feel Sherlock’s muscles tensing beneath his touch, and it filled him with a wave of nausea. There was a time when Sherlock would have lent into it, encouraging John to run his hands over his back, perhaps massaging the muscles and releasing the tension in Sherlock’s neck. Many a time that had led to something more; heated moments in the kitchen, neither quite making it to the bedroom. John had gotten used to being the giver of pleasure, to think that he was now a source of disgust was more than he could handle. </p><p>So, perhaps he had been avoiding Sherlock. But he could never tell him why. </p><p>“I — sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think that.”</p><p>Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and pulls a fresh cigarette from the pack and lights it up fast. John doesn’t say anything this time, but he can feel his facial muscles tense at the long drag that Sherlock takes with the window still closed.</p><p>“Apologies aren’t something either one of us needs. We just need The Work and to keep moving forward.”</p><p>John opens his mouth to argue, but there has been way too much of that today. He’s cold and tired and wants things to be like they used to be. Either before that first kiss or the last fight that got them here, he isn’t sure which has the most appeal. </p><p>“Right. Sure.” John feels deflated, the solid conviction that he’d held all the way here dissipating into the chilly room. He perches on the arm of his chair, not trusting his knees to remain upright. “But Sherlock, what was that outburst back at the crime scene?” </p><p>Sherlock glances up at the ceiling, chewing the side of his lip as if his thoughts are paining him. John desperately wants to reach out and take him into his arms, but he refrains, knowing that neither of them need that right now. </p><p>“I can’t think. My brain is efficient, it can push everything away to focus on one problem, but now there’s all this <em> stuff </em>in there. Thousands of thoughts and ideas are occurring all at once, and the noise is so loud that it deafens out everything else. I can’t concentrate on anything; I can’t delete any of it and it’s clouding my judgement.” </p><p>John watches with wide eyes, swallowing the hard lump that’s forming in his throat. </p><p>“Is there anything I can do?” </p><p>Sherlock all but rolls his eyes, taking another deep drag and dumping himself unceremoniously into his chair. “No, John. Contrary to your belief, you can’t fix everything. Stop being my doctor.” </p><p>“Sherlock, I just mean as your friend. Surely there’s something I can do to make things easier, maybe talk things through with you—”</p><p>“John, it’s fine.”</p><p>“— some people find it useful to talk about things —”</p><p>“Well it would be a lot easier if you weren’t here!” Sherlock yells, making John jump with the noise. He quickly regains his balance, his eyes roaming over the detective. The sting of Sherlock’s words prickle over John’s skin over and over again.</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” John can feel his voice creeping into a higher pitch, and his heart begins to hammer against his chest. </p><p>“I can’t concentrate, John. Not with you—” Sherlock flaps his hand in front of him. “—hovering around all the time!” </p><p>“I work and live with you! What else did you expect?” </p><p>“God, John, I don’t know! I just can’t <em> think </em>!” Sherlock tugs at his curls again with his free hand, and John desperately wants to yank his hand away. </p><p>“Fucking hell, Sherlock. You were fine for months, but suddenly now you can’t think? Why I love you, I don’t kno—” John bites the words off, realising too late what he’s said. </p><p>“Sorry?” </p><p>“Nothing, forget it.” John’s fists clench at his sides and his breaths quicken. He wasn’t supposed to tell Sherlock that particular information. Not now; not ever. He is supposed to be the sensible one who thinks before he speaks, and yet he blurts out a love confession when they aren’t even dating anymore. Stupid. Stupid. <em> Stupid.  </em></p><p>Sherlock doesn’t move at all and John stares at him in return. Sherlock keeps blinking rapidly as if trying to restart his brain and what can John even do to help him?</p><p>“Sherlock? Are you —“</p><p>“I...excuse me,” Sherlock interrupts, his voice almost mechanical. He takes a few wary steps backwards, like John’s a rabid animal that somehow got trapped in the flat. Carefully creating a distance that John doesn’t want, now or ever again if he could help it. John can only watch the taller man retreat into the shadows of the hallway, and the bedroom door slamming shut is a statement of how Sherlock truly feels. </p><p>“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” John groans through gritted teeth, punching the seat cushion next to him. They were getting somewhere, almost. This is the most they have properly communicated in months, and he just blew it. Who knows if things will ever be the same. Hell, who knows if Sherlock will even want him in the flat anymore. ‘<em>Why I love you,’ </em> Present tense. God damn it, why the hell had he used present tense? </p><p>He groans again, cradling his head in his hands, breathing heavily through his nose and trying to will his stomach to stop trying to jump into his mouth. </p><p>Shit. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chain Reaction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six months earlier </b> </span>
</p><p>Sherlock hunched over the corpse, laid out on the antiseptic mortuary slab. He wrinkled his nose, trying to block out the smell, but without any effect. This was the worst bit; the smells of the morgue. Biological scents he could cope with, give him a rotting corpse any day, but the artificial chemicals were an assault on his senses. They made his skin crawl, but he persevered, focusing on the data in front of him.  </p><p>There was clear bruising around the neck, made before death; obvious strangulation. Dirt caked under the fingernails, but no DNA had come back in the lab report, so the victim wasn’t facing the killer. She struggled, grasping at the ground, but couldn’t see who was attacking her. Bruising on the neck was consistent, there was a pattern of fingerprints over her trachea, and a small concentration of bruising on the nape of her neck, where two thumbs had pushed against her spine. </p><p>“So, did you fancy a coffee? We can go right after your —“ Greg’s voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room, and Sherlock’s skin twitched with irritation. He was trying to work.</p><p>“Yes!” came Molly’s over-enthusiastic reply. </p><p>A laugh. Nervous but tinged with relief. Two steps forward. Tentative. </p><p>“I mean...that would be nice. There’s a lovely little shop that just opened up at the corner. I think that it’s called The Coffee Bean or...maybe The Coffee Bag?”</p><p>Sherlock sighed, stood up from the corpse and swivelled around. His magnifying glass snapped closed, the echo of it ricocheting around the morgue. The DI and Molly's faces stared back at him as if they had just recalled where they were. </p><p>“It’s called The Coffee Pot, and I doubt that either of you needs caffeine to get on with what you’re both actually after.”</p><p>Molly’s face went incredibly pink and Lestrade’s features turned momentarily pale. </p><p>“Now...if it’s possible to have the quiet needed for me to do the job you <em> begged </em> me to do Lestrade...”</p><p>Silence fell, and Sherlock turned back to the table. The strangulation pattern indicated that the victim knew their attacker, anonymous killers rarely bothered to hide their face. On the contrary, some liked to see their victim’s face as the life drained out of it. </p><p>Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Spouse, or friend? Sherlock ran through the possibilities. There was no wedding ring, nor the familiar indentation that one would leave on her finger, so spouse was unlikely. The hand patterns on her neck were statistically too large for a woman, so more likely to be a boyfriend or male friend. He had been wrong before, but it was more time-efficient to follow that line of reasoning. </p><p>New set of footfalls. Familiar in stride. <em> John.  </em></p><p>“Sorry. Got trapped at the surgery. Things going all right then? He figured anything useful for the case yet?”</p><p>A pause. John laughed. More than likely the DI had rolled his eyes. Molly muttered something — deducing a hasty apology — and moved back to her desk area. Papers shuffled. </p><p>“Not yet.” Lestrade’s voice was quieter, but Sherlock was still able to make him out. “Told us the proper name of the new coffee shop on the corner. Well, more bellowed it at us, but that’s a normal afternoon. Don’t get how you deal with it, John. Especially with...now and everything.”</p><p>Sherlock could practically hear the blush creeping up John’s neck. Scuffs on the floor indicated John had shuffled his feet, a particular nervous habit of his. </p><p>“Well, y’know. You get used to it.” <em> Avoidance</em>. The familiar pang of irritation twitched in his stomach, but Sherlock pushed it away. Comments on how John could ‘put up with him’ were made daily by the likes of the yard, but they never hurt any less. Each time the phrase was muttered, Sherlock experienced the same wave of doubt — was John only ‘putting up’ with him? He couldn’t help his mannerisms, couldn’t switch off the traits that others found so annoying. The idea that John was with him despite those was painful, yet it was pointless to dwell. </p><p>“Used to it?” Lestrade parroted, the tone almost fond. “You deserve a medal for heroic service in the name of Queen and Country.”</p><p>John laughed again. This time much less restrained. Warm and loving. The kind that Sherlock heard after long nights of crap telly with John on the sofa. </p><p>“It becomes almost endearing after a while.” That infernal shuffle again. </p><p>“Sure it does,” Lestrade said through a smile, and Sherlock heard the sound of the DI clapping John on the shoulder. “So, you two…? I mean, that was one hell of a scene I walked in on.” There was a crash as a metal dish dropped to the floor, quickly followed by a stammered apology from Molly. </p><p>John cleared his throat, “Uh, well, sorry about that…” He danced around the question until Sherlock sighed and straightened up. </p><p>“Yes, we are having sex, as you saw, can we move on, please?”</p><p>“Does that mean you’re officially dating? Only, I have a bet with the yard, and I need to get my facts straight…”</p><p>John glared at Lestrade over the betting pool, but Sherlock chose to charge ahead. </p><p>“We’re having regular spontaneous intercourse. That fact is the only straight part of what's currently occurring. ” </p><p>“But are you <em> dating? </em>” A playful smile hung on Lestrade’s lips, and John looked as if he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Sherlock ignored him — John was embarrassed by the most trivial things, who cared if they were having sex? It was just another biological function, there was nothing embarrassing about it. </p><p>But Lestrade was implying something more. Was there some unspoken rule of relationships that Sherlock didn’t understand? In his experience, regular coitus defined relationships. How else were they distinguished from average friendships? </p><p>“Okay,” John interrupted, taking a quick glance at the ceiling as if searching for an escape route. “Lestrade I think you’ve made your point—” </p><p>“I’m taking John on a date tonight.” </p><p>“Exactly. Wait — you are?” John’s head snapped around to face him, a mixture of panic and curiosity in his eyes. </p><p>Sherlock tilted his head but then moved it back into a less confused position. Unfortunately, Lestrade still felt the need to smirk. </p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I’m taking us to Angelo’s and then we’ll head back to the flat. You usually enjoy a good meal and red wine before fornication.”</p><p>Another crash from behind them. Molly needed to stop pretending not to be overhearing their conversation, for the sake of all of Barts laboratory equipment. </p><p>“Why the bloody hell are we talking about this right now?” John groaned. “Or in this setting...or on this planet?”</p><p>Lestrade coughed out a laugh that may have caused him physical harm if he held it in much longer. Sherlock ignored him. </p><p>“When have you had a concern about discussing food and wine preferences?”</p><p>“That’s not what —“ John started and then threw up his arms. “Mad...I’m mad for all of this. Can we focus back on the body and not our sex life? Please? Anyone other than me and the corpse on the table want to get on with the case?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The cab door slammed behind him as Sherlock slid onto the backseat. John was pointedly looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. The driver began the way back to the flat, and every so often Sherlock would glance over at John. The furrowed brow and tenseness of his jaw documented John’s annoyance more than any words. Yet, Sherlock needed more data. </p><p>“Brooding is usually my area,” Sherlock muttered. John’s glare was instantaneous. </p><p>“It’s just,” John retorted, “You don’t need to tell anyone who will listen about our sex life. That’s between us.” </p><p>“Most people do it, I don’t understand the issue.” John had never made an effort to hide his previous partners; they practically paraded around the kitchen in their underwear. Why was this any different?</p><p>“Because it’s…couple’s don’t just tell everyone the hows and whens of their sex life.”</p><p>“So you’d prefer us to stay secretive?” There’s no malice in Sherlock’s voice, more genuine curiosity. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to keep a relationship to himself.</p><p>“Yes...I mean...no. Not like that. It’s just...it’s confusing.” John sighed and turned back to the window, his eyes flickering over the passing streetlamps. </p><p>“It seems like the only one confused here is you.”</p><p>The cab pulled up outside Baker Street, and Sherlock paused with his hand on the handle.</p><p>“So you don’t want to go to Angelo’s tonight?” </p><p>“Oh no, you are taking me to dinner. I plan to be truly wined and dined before I show you what that mouth is good for.” With that, John opened the door and slid out, leaving Sherlock to pay. He hovered for a moment, baffled by John’s last statement. One minute John didn’t want anyone to know about their sex life, then he made cavalier innuendos within earshot of their driver. Had Sherlock missed something? Over the years, he had become better accustomed at learning social conventions, but was this another custom he had yet to learn?</p><p>Sherlock passed the driver some twenties, before joining John on the pavement. Whatever it was, he needed to learn fast.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>To make up for the cab ride, Sherlock tried to make dinner a magical affair. He googled first dates — reading article after article on how to create an exceptional experience. Most of it was aimed at heterosexual couples, which was less than helpful, but there were small nuggets of useful information. The bits about eye contact and laughing at the other person’s jokes came across as somewhat insipid, but Sherlock still placed the information in sections of his mind palace for easy access later on. </p><p>Angelo, for his part, always played an enthusiastic matchmaker. Even now, with the thrill of John and Sherlock officially being together, he hummed around, beaming down at them as they ate. Expensive red wine was poured with not at all subtle winks to both of them, and John appeared to be relaxing with the help of the more intimate setting and a healthy dose of alcohol. </p><p>“Sherlock,” John said, half chuckling. “Why do you keep staring at me?”</p><p>Right. Perhaps a little too much eye contact. Taper it down by 15%. Try a compliment. The articles heavily mentioned compliments. </p><p>“Your choice of jumper pulls out the darker cerulean shades of your eyes. Quite appealing in the ambiance of candlelight.”</p><p>John frowned. Deduction pointed to deep suspicion. </p><p>“Did...was that a compliment?”</p><p>“I think so?”</p><p>That same laugh that caused the odd flutterings of lightness in Sherlock’s chest. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s, the weight of it secure and steadfast. John kept it there for the next three minutes and nineteen seconds. </p><p>“You either meant it as a compliment or you didn’t.” The words seemed pointed, but John said them with a smile, the kind of subtext that Sherlock found so hard to understand. </p><p>“I did. Mean it.”</p><p>“Okay.” John’s smile spread as he leaned back into his chair, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip. </p><p>More wine was poured, and John was getting a little more handsy. Nothing too overt but enough for Sherlock to know that the ludicrous articles may have actually been worth reading.</p><p>“Tell me about your day,” Sherlock said. The articles were very direct, asking your partner this was incredibly important. John’s smile faltered.</p><p>“I was with you for the majority of the day…”</p><p>Sherlock gulped as he tried to regain his footing. “Yes...that’s true, but...you were at the surgery...earlier. How was your day at the surgery? That’s what I was referring to when...just talk about your day and I’ll listen attentively and…”</p><p>He was prattling out nonsense and he had no idea how to stop himself. Did the articles give any advice as to how to pull your foot out of your mouth?</p><p>“Sherlock, are you following dating tips?” John’s brow furrowed when Sherlock hesitated a moment too long. “Have you...have you never done this before?” </p><p>Sherlock sighed and considered his options. He could blatantly lie, and risk John calling his bluff, or he could tell the truth. He decided on the truth. </p><p>“Honestly? Not like this. I just — I wanted to get things right. You were upset earlier.”</p><p>John’s hand was back on his. Openness accepted and wanted by John; duly noted for future interactions. </p><p>“I wasn’t really upset...it’s just…” </p><p>John’s thumb rubbed at Sherlock’s knuckles. John did that when about to reveal something hard for him to talk about. Rubbed at the spacebar on his laptop when he was writing a difficult case on his blog. Rubbed at his forehead when going through medical journals to stay up to date with locum work for the surgery. </p><p>“I guess I’m new at all of this too...not in the same as you, of course...but, still new, yeah? Maybe we just both need to stop taking everything so seriously and just have a nice time. Can we try that?”</p><p>Sherlock let out a shallow sigh and felt his shoulders relax. </p><p>“Yes, that sounds like a fine plan to me.” </p><p>The rest of dinner passed by with comfortable ease — both resuming the easy-going air of their previous friendship. Something still niggled at Sherlock, a prickling fear that he was getting everything wrong, that he had waded in far too deep. For most of the night, he kept it at bay, tucked into the far corners of his brain, but as the evening wore on it became harder and harder. </p><p>There was a period, towards the end of their meal, where it abated, if only for a moment. After a particularly flirty joke, John sank back into his seat and let his foot brush against the side of the detective’s leg. At first, Sherlock thought it was an accident, but then John let it travel further up his calf, towards his thighs. Sherlock let out a sly smile. Oh, here was a game he could play. </p><p>They abandoned dessert, John quickly running to hail a cab as Sherlock settled the bill. All the way home, John couldn’t keep his hands to himself, running small circles on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. It was driving him wild, and he mentally urged the cabbie to drive faster. </p><p>However, as they ascended the stairs, the persistent fear returned in full force. He tried to dislodge it, focusing on John in front of him, but the more he acknowledged it, the larger it grew.</p><p>Sherlock tugged at the bottom of John’s jumper until he got the hint and quickly pulled it over his head. The sight of John's naked chest was enough to stall Sherlock's inner monologue for the moment. In its place there laid a simmering need to get John to a bed. John's bed. His own bed. It hardly mattered right now. </p><p>"You're eager," John giggled as he was pushed onto Sherlock's mattress. "I like that. A lot."</p><p>A smirk appeared on John's lips as Sherlock kissed a trail down the middle of John's chest. John groaned in response and fiddled with the button of Sherlock's trousers as best he could. Sherlock shimmed his hips to assist, and soon after they were both completely naked. Sherlock rocked his hips, moaning into John’s mouth when he mimicked the motion. </p><p>Blindly, Sherlock reached into the bedside table, pulling out a small bottle of lube. He made a mental note to buy more as he squirted a generous amount over his fingers and palm, before grasping both of their cocks and stroking. Sherlock grinned when John let out a lewd chuckle and quickened the pace, his lips parting as his breathing increased. </p><p>This was what Sherlock understood. The technical aspects of creating pleasure, how to build up the tension, putting pressure in all the right spots, until his partner couldn’t take it anymore. He’d build and build, denying them release until the last possible moment, before letting them fall apart. And right now, John was his for the experimentation. Glorious and sensual and quivering underneath his fingertips until they both finished each other off. </p><p>“Stay there,” John rasped. Sherlock’s shoulders stilled as John crawled his way down between Sherlock’s opened legs. Sherlock threw his head back while John lifted Sherlock’s left leg and draped it on top of his good shoulder. The sensation of the remnants of lube was brushed away, and before Sherlock could fully prepare himself for it, John’s mouth was on him with feverish dedication. </p><p>A bloom of heated breath fell along Sherlock’s testicles as John moved up and down his shaft with the delicate edge that only a surgeon had. Sherlock was making odd high pitched noises that he wanted to stop, but found that was all his mouth seemed able to make. John was everywhere, and the soft smell of his aftershave and the heady Cabernet was stuck within Sherlock’s skin. </p><p>Cabernet. Vintage, but Angelo refused to name the year. John had had three glasses of it, his smile and laughter growing brighter with every sip. Not drunk, but clearly headed that way. Was that needed? Wine for John to want to be this for Sherlock? To be in between his knees and relishing the feel of a cock in his mouth? No. John was within the bisexual spectrum. John hadn’t drunk anything more than day-old coffee before their first kiss. Completely sober. They both were. More data needed. </p><p>“Sherlock?”</p><p>John had laughed with him. Shared jokes. Touched his hand for how long the second time?</p><p>“Sherlock...what’s wrong?”</p><p>There was a chill in the air—wetness without the heat. John had stopped and was now resting on his elbows and looking up at him. That same look of deep suspicion. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>John’s face tightened. Not the proper response to his question. The worst possible response. </p><p>“I asked what’s wrong? Am I not doing what you...wait, are you in your mind palace? <em> Now </em>?” </p><p>Panic was setting in, and Sherlock shifted up to meet John’s gaze. Eye contact. Openness. John liked that. He needed John to be happy again. Pleased with him.</p><p>“I don’t fucking believe you,” John muttered. He was moving, and not towards Sherlock. Away from him. The space between them grew, and Sherlock searched for something to say. To fix this. “Not that you should do anything that you don’t want...I mean, I...I should go.”</p><p>Why wasn’t anything working? Sherlock sat upright and covered himself. John froze in place. </p><p>“John,” he began. “I…”</p><p>“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sherlock. I’m sorry I snapped at you at all. I’m...taking a shower. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” John nodded as if he needed to assure himself of this. Sherlock’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” John repeated. “The morning.”</p><p>John was out of the room before Sherlock could say anything else. Usually able to think so fast, his brain had stalled, unable to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t make John hate him. The room was cold, both with the evening breeze and John’s absence. Sherlock shivered, the quickly drying lube becoming uncomfortable, but he found himself paralysed with uncertainty. How had he let himself become so consumed by his insecurity, that he’d ignored what was right in front of him? He couldn’t, <em> mustn’t, </em>let it happen again. </p><p>He needed to know John. Needed to memorise every square inch of his body, understand each pressure point and erogenous zone. If he could discover exactly how to pull John Watson apart, maybe it wouldn’t matter if Sherlock’s brain wandered. He thought back to the first time, the frenzied give and take in the kitchen. John had given an uncontrolled moan each time he’d twisted his wrist on the upwards stroke, and had thrust into his hand whenever Sherlock’s thumb brushed over his frenulum. Sherlock closed his eyes and filed the data away into his mind palace. If he collected enough, would a pattern emerge? Could he create some sort of formula, the secret to pleasing John Watson? Perhaps. But first, more input — he needed to explore John’s body, try out different techniques and memorise his responses. </p><p>Sherlock considered going upstairs, finding John and starting his collection right away, but he remembered the hurt in John’s eyes and his resolve shrunk. Tomorrow. </p><p>He’d make it up to John. Soon.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Control</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The tags have been added to! Please read them if you need.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <span class="u"> <b>John: Present day</b> </span>
</p><p>John emerges from his room, his head still a buzz from the previous night’s argument. He barely slept at all; replaying what was said on a loop in his mind. The way Sherlock had stared at him when John blurted out that infernal love confession. The look of overwhelming panic in those silver-blue eyes that John had never seen before and hoped to never see again.</p><p>The smell of tea pushes John’s brain back to the present, and he sniffs the air as if he must have imagined the initial whiff. No, it’s definitely there. The slightly spicy smell of the teas he had bought at Tesco the previous week, and the scent is coming from downstairs. </p><p>“Sherlock?” John calls out, but there is no answer. Instead, as he moves down the stairs, he hears the small shufflings of the kettle, the padding of bare feet on the wooden floor, and lastly the most disturbing thing he has ever heard since moving in with Sherlock. The sound of Sherlock whistling. What the hell?</p><p>“Good morning,” Sherlock says brightly once John hurries into the kitchen. John feels his mouth open in shock. The kitchen is spotless except for two empty mugs on the table. Even the floor looks as if it has been freshly cleaned. “Sit down, then. I’ll have tea ready in a few minutes.” He flicks the kettle switch, and the water inside immediately starts boiling. He must have used it recently, then. Had Sherlock been waiting for John to wake?</p><p>“Uh, good morning — did you sleep at all last night?” </p><p>Sherlock doesn’t reply. He busies himself with the kettle, pouring the water into the mugs and straining the teabags. </p><p>“Thank you,” John goes to take a sip, but pauses before his lips touch the mug. “There’s nothing in this, right?” </p><p>“Well, I put a tea bag in, and some hot water—” </p><p>“Right, but that’s it?” </p><p>“I do know how to make tea, John. I am British, after all. Yours is just — better.” He admits with a half-smile, and a familiar pang of affection pulls at John’s heart. Damnit, not now. </p><p>“Wait, was that a compliment?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Sherlock smiles warmly into his mug.</p><p>Where is this coming from? Yesterday, they could barely stand to be in the same room as each other, and now they’re making tea and cracking jokes? John sips warily, his eyes flickering over every inch of the detective, trying to figure out what is different. It can’t  have been that simple — one unintended declaration of love and everything was back to normal. John had been up half the night imagining the worst scenarios — Sherlock asking him to move out, or calling an end to this attempt at friendship. His mind had conjured up every situation possible, anticipated every argument, yet he hadn’t considered this. <em> Normalcy.  </em></p><p>Sherlock’s friendly nature continues for the rest of the day. He opens doors for John, standing back to let him enter rooms first. He compliments John’s outfit; his choice of lunch at speedy’s; the shoes he picks out for pints with Greg. By the end of the day, John is left with a foreboding sense of dread. He knows it isn’t this easy. Something is still wrong, and Sherlock is over-compensating. Each time John tries to bring up the conversation from last night, tries to clear the air, Sherlock avoids the topic, either quickly changing the subject, or pretending not to hear John entirely.</p><p>Even Sherlock’s goodbye when John leaves to meet Greg is strange. Just as he has pulled on his coat and is about to open the door Sherlock stops and hugs him. A warm, loving hug and tells John to have a “<em> good time” </em> and to “ <em> give Greg his best </em> .” <em> Greg. </em> Sherlock actually called Greg by his actual first name. John almost falls over right there on the spot. </p><p>By the time John reaches the pub, he is so out of sorts that he almost misses the DI waving him over to a small booth in the back. He sits down and cradles the beer that Greg has already ordered him, at a loss for where to start.</p><p>“Did you find out why Sherlock was so worked up yesterday?” Greg inquires after a long gulp of his own drink. </p><p>“Oh I don’t know why specifically. He’s just so testy lately, and I’m not sure I’ve been helping, especially because I…” John sighs, unsure as to whether to admit what had transpired between them. “I let it slip that I love him.”</p><p>“Oh…” Greg says, after a very long pause. </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“As...<em> in </em> love with him…” Lestrade replies, his index finger tapping the table to emphasise the next part. “...as of now... <em> today. </em>..”</p><p>John’s head drops into his hands as he groans, a new wave of embarrassment washing over him. Why had his stupid brain insisted on present tense?  “Oh dear God, yeah.”</p><p>The DI whistles out a breath and leans back in the booth. “That’s...a lot John. Especially for him. He’s...not that I knew much about the blokes he was with before you, but Sherlock has never been one for proclamations like that.”</p><p>“Nor me for that matter.”</p><p>Lestrade hums in contemplation. Takes another swig of his drink and then settles it back onto the table, dark eyes sympathetic. “Yeah...true. And he’s been acting even more of an arse ever since?”</p><p>“No...even worse. He’s been cleaning the flat, making tea and...hugging me.”</p><p>The DI frowns in understandable confusion. “So...Sherlock’s being more polite and considerate, and you have a problem with that?”</p><p>John knows how he sounds. Part of him wants to shut up and be grateful that Sherlock is obviously putting the effort in, but he can’t. This isn’t the man he met in that lab -- the one that will deduce the smallest details of your life without a care for how you feel; the man who leaves thumbs in the fridge and never ever cleans up after himself. Not the man he fell in love with. Sherlock may be a pain in the arse sometimes, but he’s <em> his </em>pain in the arse, whatever that means now. John waits until after their server drops off another couple of beers to answer. She gives a flirty smile to John, which he pointedly ignores. </p><p>“No,” John mumbles. “It’s just...something’s wrong. Off about all of this.”</p><p>Greg laughs, his deep chuckle startling a woman in the next booth. “Sounds like to me that you should have told him you were in love with him centuries ago, mate.”</p><p>“He isn’t the same Sherlock I fell in love with, though.” It still feels strange to admit. Those words have lived in his head for so long, and they sound like whispered secrets in Greg’s mouth. </p><p>“Perhaps he’s growing up,” The DI says with a shrug. “Trying to be a better person. Maybe stop trying to find out what’s wrong when...perhaps there isn’t anything wrong at all?”</p><p>“He was complimenting my shoes, Greg. It’s clearly a cry for help.”</p><p>“For God’s sake, you’re just as bad as each other. I really don’t see the problem, John.”</p><p>The DI gives another chuckle, and John realises that he’s not explaining himself well at all. How the hell could he have ever seen this complication happening in a breakup? Leave it to Sherlock to even make being friends this bloody involved. </p><p>A few more days pass, and John does his best to roll with this new Sherlock, but there’s a constant nagging in his chest. This isn’t right. This isn’t the Sherlock he knows — the one that never noticed what he was wearing, let alone mentioned it. He’s not even sure if it’s better than the Sherlock of before, the one that would switch from hot to cold in a matter of seconds. The one that, whenever a case emerged, would throw on his mask and erect his walls, not letting anyone in until it was solved. That Sherlock was hard to be around, hard to love — but this version of the detective is just as scary. Everything feels so false, so forced. </p><p>By the third day, John is ready to burst. Each compliment grates him; every thoughtful gesture sends him into a spiral of overthinking, and he almost wishes for the return of snarky Sherlock. Anything but this false layer of affection, the overly forced friendship. </p><p>Unfortunately, it’s at a crime scene where his frustration breaks its dam. </p><p>Lestrade finds another body that he thinks is related to their serial murderer case. Each victim has been killed with the same MO as Michael Pierce, a serial killer they had arrested only months before. The victims have been strangled and dumped in parks around London, a single key found in their left pockets. The yard is stumped; they definitely arrested the right man, he confessed as soon as they interrogated him. And yet here are more bodies, killed in the same way, whilst Michael is safe behind bars. </p><p>John is surprised that he’s not more worked up <span>—</span> pulling all-nighters like most other cases, but Sherlock seems unusually calm. Sherlock has theories, of course, but he insists that the bodies are too infrequent to make any definite conclusions. Perhaps that is why the usual indifferent mask never falls, and Sherlock retains his sickly-sweet persona from the last few days. </p><p>“John, what do you think about the keys being in their right jacket pockets when the earlier cases the keys were in the left? Do you have a theory?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah…” John answers, taken aback by Sherlock’s request for his opinion. “It’s possible that the new killer is just right-handed instead of left like Michael Pierce? And the copycat doesn’t see it as a necessary detail?”</p><p>“Thank you, John, I’ll bear that in mind.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, you’ll do what?” Sherlock’s brow crumples, lips twitching in clear confusion.  “Since when have you ever taken on board what I suggest?” </p><p>“It’s a good theory, John. You underestimate—”</p><p>“It’s a pile of crap, Sherlock, and you know it. I have less idea what’s going on here than you do. Why are you acting as if I’m made of paper?” </p><p>“I’m not, I’m merely complimenting—”</p><p>“You are. You’ve been ‘complimenting’ me for days, and it’s...offputting.”</p><p>“Boys, this is a crime scene. Dial it down.” Lestrade chides, one placating hand raised.</p><p>John and Sherlock both turn at the same time. John considers letting it drop, allowing Sherlock to get back to work and walking away, but this entire charade of whatever the hell Sherlock is playing at is beyond what he can stand. </p><p>“No, Greg. I won’t, because I’m sick of this. Sherlock, just tell me whatever you’re thinking, I can deal with it. I’m not some child that needs coddling. I fucked up, and that’s fine. Just tell me that. This, this is too weird.” </p><p>They continue bickering; Sherlock refusing to concede and John pushing for more, demanding to know why Sherlock is tiptoeing around him. Their voices become louder and louder until a few forensic techs raise their heads and begin muttering.</p><p>Greg eventually intervenes, ordering them both into a taxi until they can ‘sort their shit out.’ </p><p>“And don’t come back until you’ve both stopped acting like children. You’re professionals, the pair of you.” He yells into the car before slamming the door. </p><p>The cab ride is silent, both men staring angrily out of the window. John wants to start again, demand that Sherlock open up for once and tell him what he's actually feeling, but he’s painfully aware that the cabbie will be able to hear everything they say. Though, he’s not sure it matters, since half of Scotland Yard knows their business by now. Still, he doesn’t want to walk home. </p><p>John starts pushing again the moment they enter the flat, throwing his jacket over his chair and angrily flicking the kettle on. Coffee. He needs coffee. </p><p>They argue in circles, neither willing to back down. Sherlock still won’t explain his behaviour, and John is getting sick of it. What’s so difficult about telling the truth?</p><p>“I don’t value your opinion and you’re angry, but when I <em> do </em> value your opinion you’re still angry. What the hell do you want from me, John?” Sherlock asks, waving his hand through the air, his face tightly pinched with frustration.</p><p>“I don’t know!” John desperately tries to keep the desperation out of his voice. Sherlock is standing by the fireplace, watching him like a hawk. It’s like trying to have an argument with a microscope <span>—</span> there’s nowhere to hide, no emotion unnoticed. </p><p>“You never know!” </p><p>“I want things back to how they were before all this! When things were easy, not like walking on eggshells all the time!“ John takes a step forward, fisting his hand through his hair and raking his eyes over Sherlock as he glares at him; his narrow chest heaving, and John feels something in his resolve snaps into pieces. God, all he really wants is to touch Sherlock, and have Sherlock want to be touched by him in return.  </p><p>“I want you to stop treating me like I’m going to break! As if, because I love you, I’m not exactly the same person as before!” John bites his lip, and sees Sherlock almost step forward, but stop himself. He looks torn and seems to be trying to figure out what is the most logical thing to do next. </p><p>More logic. Fuck logic.</p><p>“I want—” John lunges forwards and pins Sherlock against the fireplace, grasping his wrists and sliding them above his head. His grip is gentle, weak enough for Sherlock to easily break free, but clearly indicating his desire. His mouth hovers centimetres away from Sherlock’s lips, giving him an out, a chance to safeword; to throw John off and remind him that they closed the door on this particular activity weeks ago. But, to his surprise, Sherlock leans forwards and closes the gap. </p><p>Heat is everywhere. It pulses through Sherlock’s lips to his and <em> yes</em>. This is right and rich and exactly what they both need. Sherlock whimpers and melts into John’s arms, yielding beneath the weight of his body. Sherlock’s captivating mouth is softer than John remembers it, and the taste of his lips has John wanting to carve his initials in the line of Sherlock’s spine with his nails. He gives those same nails a tentative drag and Sherlock practically melts into his arms at the sensation. The shudders begin and end both of them as they try to make it to a bed. John pulls Sherlock along the hallway, stopping every so often to push him against the wall and kiss him again. Sherlock is pliant and soft in every place John’s body connects with his. </p><p>Clothing is torn off. Buttons fly in all directions. Sherlock groans a curse that John wants to hear as many times as possible. John yearns to witness Sherlock open wide and crying out his name, his steady thrusts and wanton moans the only communication that they need. There have only been a handful of times they went into specific kinks, and John straddles Sherlock’s hips and reaches over into the bedside table. To his delight, the purple satin material is still there, and he yanks it out and places it onto Sherlock’s chest. </p><p>“Is this okay?” John asks, breaking the urgency for a moment. He needs this; needs to be in control — to lay Sherlock beneath him and know that every sound that passes his lips is because of him, but he needs to know that Sherlock’s on the same page. </p><p>“Yes. It’s good.”</p><p>“Your safe word?” </p><p>“Belstaff, as always. Now please, fuck m— ”</p><p>John silences Sherlock’s final word with a searing kiss while simultaneously grabbing hold of Sherlock’s wrists and pushing them up to the frame of the headboard. ‘Ambidextrous enough to handle a squirming consulting detective’ should be written on John’s sexual resume. As if anyone would be allowed to see it other than Sherlock and himself. </p><p>Sherlock stays put with the help of the restraints now binding his wrist, and <em> Christ </em>John could come right now from the way Sherlock looks underneath him. Dark curls splashed all over the light blue linens and pale skin glistening with sweat and arousal that John Watson caused. The cheekbones that John cherishes striking in the low light of Sherlock’s bedroom.  </p><p>“God, how I’ve missed this...you have no idea…” With a twitch of Sherlock’s erection, John smirks. “All right, then. Maybe you do.”</p><p>John moves forward again. This journey leads to Sherlock’s quivering mouth and skitters along his strong jawline. John snakes his hand back up to the bedside table and pulls out the lube that has always been stored there. In a heady rush of understanding, he knows that Sherlock must still have been using it on long nights. Perhaps thinking about John as he brought himself to climax. Not any more of that. John is taking care of Sherlock, just like he should always be. </p><p>“So magnificent,” John whispers and Sherlock’s cock swells even more. “When you’re like this...writhing on the bed just for me…”</p><p>Pale skin glistening with sweat that clings onto the sheets, and John is kissing Sherlock again because he needs to be close enough to see the usually ever-present eyes glaze over. Heady with lust that is and should always be John’s doing.</p><p>“John…” Sherlock rasps, toes curling as the bed creaks with their movements. The undulations between them speed and slow to their shared panting breaths.  </p><p>“You are beautiful,” John goes on, his hands now pushing the edges of the wispy dark curls near Sherlock’s v-line. “To think I have the gift to see you like this. Underneath my fingertips to do whatever I want to see your stunning face in pleasure.”</p><p>John circles the outside of Sherlock’s hole with his index finger, tenderly massaging the muscle, heat surging to his groin as Sherlock tries to lean into the pressure. John squeezes a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, gently sliding a finger inside. The muscles tense sharply and Sherlock moans, but he quickly relaxes, and John pushes forward, pressing firmly against the inner wall. </p><p>Sherlock arches his back with pleasure as John finds his prostate, Sherlock’s wrists straining against their knots; the headboard creaking in protest. John teases around the firm knot, occasionally letting his fingers brush over the cluster of nerves. Sherlock whimpers and thrusts forward, trying to increase the contact. </p><p>“Please…” He whines, half to John and half to the ceiling. “Want you. Need you. John…”</p><p>John lets his fingers slide over Sherlock’s prostate, and the detective’s hips snap forward, followed by a deep growl. John withdraws his finger, just for a moment, before sliding in a second one. He moves his fingers more this time, stretching the walls, occasionally brushing against the prostate and sending another wave of convulsions through Sherlock’s body. John gives the detective a sound of deep approval, and Sherlock sighs in return. His slender thighs tremble as John continues to open him up with the skill that only belongs to a surgeon. </p><p>Before long, Sherlock is writhing over the bedclothes, feet grappling for purchase as John brings him to the edge. Eventually, John can’t wait any longer, and he opens the bottle of lube with a snap and applies a generous amount to his cock, groaning at the touch. He briefly wonders whether they should use a condom, but he knows for a fact that neither of them has slept with anyone else since the breakup, and they were clean before. Sherlock mutters something, and John looks down into the half mooned eyes. </p><p>“Please John…” Sherlock begs, his voice teeters on the edge of a sob. His legs squeeze around John’s waist and John is holding back saying it again. That he loves this man with more heart that should be physically possible. “Take me…”</p><p>At once, the room becomes heavy with their pants as John pushes inside Sherlock’s wet heat and the bed sways with their rocking back and forth. Their mouths open and tongues intertwine as John bucks into Sherlock with a  slow and firm thrust that has his detective gasping hot breath into the shell of his ear. The ebb and flow of their lovemaking tells a story that John wants to retell on his blog. It plays a song that only Sherlock can play on his violin. That their sex is messy and dirty and beautiful and chaotically pure. It’s what keeps John from escaping this entire world of insanity because Sherlock lives in this insanity too, and they need this. <em>This. This. This. </em></p><p>Sherlock moans grow louder, and John knows that he’s nearly there. Just another few thrusts in the exact spot he has learned like a roadmap and Sherlock spills warm and wet in between their bellies. Sherlock tenses around John’s cock with the aftershock, and it pulls John over the edge to join him. They breathe between kisses, and Sherlock’s bedroom smells of sex and sweat and what the two of them become when they only belong to each other. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Data Collection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six Months Earlier </b> </span>
</p><p>Three days was not long enough to scrub through the halls and walls of Sherlock’s mind palace and forget what had happened that night. How could he have been so stupid to think that his lust for John would be enough to stop all of the deductions? It was always the more logical option to only trust his innate ability to read John’s needs. That calculations and analytics were the true way to a long-lasting relationship, and Sherlock desired that more than he’d thought was conceivably possible. </p><p>Data. Notes. Hypotheses. John had sexual proclivities that Sherlock could and would satisfy. All that Sherlock had to manage was the documentation of events and situations that made John the most content. Then continue the cycles until John could logically never see himself with another person again. </p><p>Simple and easily constructed with enough information. </p><p>The first couple of days after <em> The Blowjob Fiasco</em>, which Sherlock called it on his spreadsheet, Sherlock laid out his carefully constructed theories. The ways John smiled at certain things Sherlock said, and how John licked his lips when Sherlock wore certain clothing. Each piece of information was a wealth of knowledge on how to make himself as appealing as possible.</p><p>“Sherlock, there’s tea made...if you’re wanting it.”</p><p>John sounded as if he was trying to say something more, but the words didn’t seem to be able to leave his mouth in the proper arrangement. Sherlock glanced up from the notes on his laptop to see John walking away. Shoulders slightly hunched and his gait slower.</p><p>“Thank you, John.”</p><p>John stilled for a moment and gave a small nod before he continued to walk away. He headed to the front door, pulled his coat off the rack and left the flat without another word. Odd. John usually only went to the surgery on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Had Sherlock not been paying close enough attention to the days of the week? He checked the date on his laptop. <em> Wednesday. </em> So either John picked up another shift or was doing something else entirely, and didn’t want him involved. </p><p>Sherlock rolled both choices in his head and didn’t like how either sounded. Even more reason to get his data properly strategised so that John wanted to spend more time with him again. </p><p>The tea that John made was now cold, but Sherlock drank it anyway. He realised, a bit later than he usual due to his focus on the spreadsheet, that John bought more of the ginger lemon black tea that Sherlock had raved about a few months ago, but didn’t seem available at any of the local shops. Sherlock sighed as he finished off the last few drops, knowing that John clearly had gotten the tea in an apologetic gesture. </p><p>However, that made very little sense. It had been <em> Sherlock </em> who had ruined their night, and not John. John had every right to be upset about the entire situation. Sherlock furrowed his brow and shook away the confusion. The spreadsheet would fix all of this in the end.</p><p>He settled back down in the sitting room and wrote down a few more errant facts, just to get them out of his head and onto the page. Then he’d recategorise until every future action was perfect from his side, with enough alternating variables to keep John none the wiser. Sherlock felt his phone buzz from his pyjama pocket, and it was hard to stomp down the quiver of disappointment that the text wasn’t from John.</p><p>
  <b>Molly: Are you and John able to come to the morgue? I have something about the newest victim that I think you should both see. </b>
</p><p>Sherlock peered at his laptop for a fleeting moment before closing it down and texting back a response. </p><p>
  <b>I’ll be there in the hour. Alone this time. SH</b>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The cab ride was even longer than usual without John there to fill up the time. The driver tried to make small-talk here and there but finally accepted that Sherlock was far more interested in rechecking his phone for new texts than real-life conversation. </p><p>Sherlock swept through the hallways of Barts feeling very wrongfooted. He wondered how he did any of The Work away from John, and would redouble his efforts to get the spreadsheet fully implemented by tomorrow morning at the latest. </p><p>“Hey,” Molly said as he pushed open the laboratory door. She was wearing lipstick again, and cradling the same coffee mug from the previous time he had been here. </p><p>“Nice to see you and Lestrade working out,” Sherlock said as casually as he could. His eyes scanned a few items on the large table in the middle of the room. “And before you ask...you’ve been wearing different shades of lipstick each of the last few times I’ve seen you. It would only make sense to try out other colours if you are going out with the same person and want to keep everything light and fresh. The mug is from <em> The Coffee Bean </em>, so it dictates that you went there with the DI like you initially chatted about, and you had a nice time. People don’t usually keep souvenirs connected with unpleasant memories.” </p><p>Molly went scarlet in the face and placed the mug back at her desk. “Yes, you’re right,” she squeaked and moved over to the table across from Sherlock. “You’re usually right about these things though, so...it makes sense.”</p><p>She gave a weak smile, and Sherlock tried to return it as best he could. He hadn’t meant to upset her. He was genuinely glad; Lestrade and Molly seemed to work together. They’d been dancing around each other for months, neither wanting to make the first move. It had been infuriating to watch — Sherlock wished he could have spelt it out for the both of them, but John informed him that that would have been ‘a bit not good’. </p><p>Why could he never get things right?</p><p>“I — I meant it, by the way.” He stuttered. The words felt wrong in his mouth — casual conversation had never been his strong suit. At least with anyone who wasn’t John.</p><p>“I know.” Molly’s smile grew warmer. “So,” she began, gesturing to the items on the table, which included a large open folder, and what looked like the victim’s scarf. “I think you were right about this being related to the newest murders, despite the fact that it doesn’t quite fit with the other victims. The strangulation wounds were caused by her scarf, where the others were strangled by hand. But here — there are faint bruise marks on the neck, as if someone finished the job by hand. The age, appearance and gender all match the other victims, the only thing that’s missing is the calling card. I’m not sure you could prove it in court, but it might be worth exploring what made this one different.”</p><p>“Which doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock concluded. “Unless the victim struggled, and the killer needed the extra leverage the scarf provided. But because the MO didn’t fit their previous kills, they didn’t want to claim it.”</p><p>Molly nodded. “Exactly, it seems like it was done almost...hastily? What do you think?” She asked, but Sherlock’s mind was already roaming onto a more pressing topic. Perhaps Molly would be a good source of information regarding a more everyday issue between John and himself.</p><p>“Has Lestrade ever been too busy with a case to take you out on dates?”</p><p>Sherlock was quickly reminded that, unlike John, Molly was more rattled by a change in conversation. She narrowed her eyes as if that might help her connect what Sherlock had just asked her to the subject at hand. </p><p>“Has Greg...what?”</p><p>As much as Sherlock hated repeating himself, every so often, he needed to make exceptions. Today would be one of those. </p><p>“Lestrade. Since you’re dating, and I’m assuming you’re exclusive, there must be times that he has to cancel a date or...just forgets to take you out. Is that accurate?”</p><p>“Sure, that’s how police work goes, sometimes.” Molly paused, watching his face. Sherlock tried to keep it blank, determined not to betray anything. “There are days when I have to cancel too, if something urgent comes in.”</p><p>“But you don’t get upset with each other?” He thought he kept the mask up, but something must have slipped because her brow furrowed slightly. </p><p>“No? I mean, it’s annoying sometimes, when you had plans, but we both knew this before we started dating. We’ve accepted it, and we make the next time we see each other even more special.” </p><p>Sherlock nodded, his brain running over him and John. Should they make the effort? Do something different once the Work stopped calling? But the Work was always calling, for one of them. </p><p>“Is a similar thing happening between you and John?”</p><p>Molly asked the question so fast that Sherlock barely heard it, but she gave him the same look she usually reserved for particularly interesting corpses. Her dark brown eyes had an intensity that Sherlock, on any other day, would admire quite a lot.</p><p>“It’s...no,” he muttered back, but his usual air of impertinence made the lie ring particularly hollow in the morgue. He was getting tired of so many insistent emotions clouding his judgement. “I mean...maybe. I have been having difficulty with splitting up my time for The Work and John. He states that he understands that the Work comes first, but then he gets angry whenever it interferes.”</p><p>“And...it interferes often?”</p><p>Sherlock stared at her, nonplussed. “Well, obviously…it’s The Work, Molly. There are constantly cases to be investigated, and Lestrade knows that the rest of the Yard is wholly incompetent without the assistance of John and myself.”</p><p>“You’re allowed to have time off, Sherlock. They can cope without you.”</p><p>There was now a very sour taste in Sherlock’s mouth that he wanted desperately to get rid of. Molly meant well. She always did, but she was crossing the line in any opinions she had regarding what cases Sherlock should and shouldn’t take. </p><p>However, the morgue door swung open again before Sherlock could say this to Molly. To both his and Molly’s surprise, John was closing the door behind him and looking mutinous. </p><p>“John,” Molly and Sherlock said at once. </p><p>“Yeah,” John answered, and by the panting quality of his voice, Sherlock wondered if he had run all the way to the morgue from the front entrance. “Got Molly’s text...and took the first cab here.” John rounded his glare at Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me that you came about the case? I would have headed over straight away.”</p><p>Molly stammered out an explanation that she had texted John right before Sherlock said that he was coming alone, but Sherlock barely took notice of it. John was already striding over and asking her questions about the new information, and Sherlock decided it was best to just take notes and focus on the case for now. </p><p>The time passed quickly, and John’s annoyance soon faded. They barely spoke a word that wasn’t about the case, and Molly mercifully didn’t bring up their earlier conversation. </p><p>She did shoot him a significant look as they left, but he merely rolled his eyes and followed John out of the room. </p><p>“Hey, do you want to get some coffee before we head home? Could do with a pick me up.” John asked, pressing the call button for the lift.</p><p>“Sure. The Costa on the second floor?” </p><p>“Sounds like a plan.” Sherlock’s stomach lurched slightly as the lift descended too quickly. The doors opened with a ping as they reached the ground floor, and they passed a solitary woman on the way out, too busy on her phone to move out of the way. </p><p>“Do you want to share an almond croissant with me? They were really good last—”</p><p>“John? John Watson?” The interrupting voice came from behind them, back in the direction of the lift. Sherlock continued walking, blocking out the noise — probably just another fan — but John stopped. </p><p>“Oh my god, Leah? What are you doing here?” John exclaimed. </p><p>Sherlock turned around to find a woman about John’s age, her arms outstretched, standing at the far end of the hallway. Her toothy smile had the telltale signs of past and personal familiarity. Not a fan then. </p><p>The woman was wearing a suit and trousers, expensive, but not ridiculously so — money to spend, but not vain enough to care about labels. No rings or jewellery below the wrists and she was wearing flat shoes; not a paper-pusher then. Judging by the apparent size of her pay packet, and the sensible choice in accessories, she was a doctor — a surgeon, if he had to guess. </p><p>“I got a job interview for head of Neurology, and I just had to come see this old place! It looks exactly the same.” She casually brushed a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear, and her eyes flickered over to Sherlock, before returning to John. “Do you work here? Which department are you in? You wanted to do trauma surgery, didn’t you?” </p><p>An old uni friend then. Neither had stayed in contact enough to know what stage the other was at in their life, but they had been close enough to recognise each other from voice alone. Close, but not enough to stay in touch, so a casual friend. An old fling? No, Sherlock wouldn’t allow himself to deduce that much. He wasn’t the jealous type, or, at least he didn’t think he was, but he’d rather not know. </p><p>“Oh, no. I’m, um — I do locum work now. Y’know. As a GP. My hands—” He trailed off, holding out his non-existent tremor. Sherlock knows that’s not why John doesn’t do surgery anymore, but he bites his tongue. Who was this woman? Why was John lying to her?</p><p>“Oh, that’s right! You went to Iraq, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Afghanistan.”</p><p>“Of course.” She gave a two-dimensional smile. Sherlock could practically feel her discomfort rolling off in waves. Over his time with John, Sherlock had realised that most people fell within two categories; they were either inappropriately enthusiastic about John’s army experience, acting as if John had single-handedly saved the world; or they were embarrassingly awkward, never knowing what to say. Both frustrated him endlessly. The war was just another part of John, an insignificant detail that made him who he was. </p><p>“Well, I actually do detective work now. With my err — Sherlock. He’s a consulting detective.” </p><p>“Oh! Well, that’s certainly different!” </p><p><em> It certainly is. </em>Sherlock fought to keep his face straight; unwilling to let the hurt slip through his carefully built mask. His Sherlock. John made him sound like a pet — or worse, some lingering presence that he couldn’t wait to get rid of. Had he missed something? Were they not calling each other partners any more?</p><p>He cast his memory back, trying to remember if John had ever called him his partner. No, not in his memory. The rational part of his brain reminded him that John hadn’t had a reason to; their friends had found out through the gossip circle that was Gavin Lestrade, and it had been less than a month since their relationship had changed. This was the first time either of them had needed to introduce the other as anything other than flatmates. </p><p>Did Harry know? </p><p>The question slid uninvited into his mind. Had John made a simple, one-off mistake, or was he hiding their relationship? He knew that John struggled with his sexuality; constantly wrestled with the ingrained biphobia that came from unaccepting parents and a backwards society, but surely it didn’t extend this far? To shoving them both back into the closet as soon as a stranger approached? </p><p>Surely, out of everyone, Harry was the easiest person to tell? Sherlock made a mental note to ask John later. </p><p>“Hey, do you want to get a coffee? I have some time before my train.” Leah asked, checking her watch. </p><p>“Uh, we were just—” John looked over to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and nodded. Why should he care if they ran off to have coffee? It wasn’t like John needed his permission. “—sure. Which station are you going to?” </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock stalked out through entrance doors and into the afternoon sun, leaving John to catch up with <em> Leah. </em> Maybe she could tell him more about their <em> ‘different’ </em> detective work, and how he was his <em> Sherlock.  </em></p><p>He knew it was unfair to be this riled, but John’s comment had got under his skin. It had reminded him of their meeting with Sebastian, when John had disregarded him as a ‘colleague’. Did he mean so little? </p><p>He was fine with them spending time together, really. He wasn’t possessive, and it wasn’t his place to dictate who John spent time with. But it sent pins into his spine at the thought of them laughing over the good old days, before John had been sent into the depths of hell. Was it hell? Sherlock had never asked about John’s army days, never bothered to find out what he saw when he screamed himself awake at night. Oh, he’d been there to soothe him; Sherlock had made it his mission to play his violin on those nights in a desperate attempt to save John from his mind. The music always lulled him back to sleep, and John had reiterated his appreciation of this a few weeks after their relationship became romantic, but Sherlock had never pushed beyond that. The source of John’s PTSD was still a mystery to him. </p><p>Should he ask more? He barely knew what had happened during those formidable years; he’d never thought to ask. Sherlock knew enough — he deduced scraps of information by John’s habits and his reactions to certain stimuli, but they’d never had a real conversation about it. </p><p>Perhaps he should have. Their first time at Angelo’s had been a wave of sexual tension and barely veiled conversation. Had Sherlock been so wrapped up in seeing what John wanted right then and there that he saw no need to dig deeper into John’s past? Possible. John continually threw out signals that his life before coming back to London had been painful and sorted in ways that left him still having the occasional nightmare. </p><p>So, yes, it was possible that John didn’t need or want Sherlock to theorise into anything in his past any more than he already had. But here was this woman, who walked in knowing this version of John that Sherlock had yet to meet. It gave him an unsettled sensation in his stomach. As if he was missing an invaluable clue in an incredibly important case. </p><p>The unsettled feeling increased. Sherlock didn’t need people like Leah coming into their already involved life. Leah. With her perfect teeth and silly little laugh. More than likely both the teeth and the laugh was as fake as other body parts of her were too. With all of them created to lure John back into the arms of the more familiar female form. </p><p>He paused his thoughts, and shook them off as best he could. He was being unfair. In all likelihood, Leah was a perfectly nice person, with a husband at home and 2.5 kids. It was just that Sherlock didn’t have the best of experiences with apparently ‘perfectly nice’ people, and he didn’t need anyone else reminding John how much better he could have it. </p><p>He would have to collect more data. This just proved that he needed to learn everything he could, and show John that he could be a good partner. He could be what he needed. </p><p>He pushed the thoughts of the case aside. He could make time for this; it was important. That was what Molly had advised, wasn’t it? Make time for John. If he returned home as soon as possible, he could upload more data before John got back. He’d have a usable spreadsheet in a few days, and he could begin to see the patterns he needed to maintain to keep John by his side. </p><p>Just a few more days.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Ground Rules</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>John: Present day</b> </span>
</p><p>John breathes out for what feels like the first time in ages. His right hand caresses the side of Sherlock's still heaving chest, and with his left hand, he begins to undo the purple silk restraints. </p><p>“You kept them,” John whispers.</p><p>“I had to…” Sherlock replies. “I couldn’t give up hope completely.”</p><p>Both of John's hands still at the sentiment of Sherlock's admission. Sherlock’s tenderness when all of his outer shell's thorns fall away is a sight that John has missed.</p><p>"Hope about…" John prompts, and there is the huff of mild annoyance that is far more in Sherlock's character. </p><p>"About us like this," Sherlock responds, and he interweaves the fingers of his free hand into John's. "My head feels less noisy when we kiss...goes completely quiet when we do more. But you're aware of those facts."</p><p>John <em> is </em> aware of this. He was told as much a few weeks after their first time together. Sherlock had mentioned that John's ability to cause his mind palace to quiet was one of the most remarkable skills that Sherlock had ever encountered. The admission was the closest thing to a love confession that Sherlock had ever given him, and he held it tight and would never let go. </p><p>“What were the last few days about?” John asks, running his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek. The detective shivers beneath him and lets his eyes flutter closed, just for a moment. </p><p>“I wanted you to feel comfortable. Because — that was a big thing, for you. And I didn’t want you to feel like I didn’t care.” </p><p>John isn’t sure how to absorb what Sherlock has revealed. The gesture is nearly too altruistic and at odds with what he has come to terms with the <em> Sherlock way of romance </em>.  </p><p>Sherlock wiggles his other hand out of the silk with minimal effort and lets it fall to the mattress. John sinks down next to him, turning to his side and resting his head on his hand so he can watch Sherlock’s face. He's looking up to the ceiling with his eyes open as if lost in thoughts that he can't vocalise yet. John waits until he can't hold it in any longer, even if he isn't sure how Sherlock will take it this time. </p><p>"I'm sorry if my...the whole I love you thing...from the other...it's…"</p><p>"As stated before, John, we owe no apologies — we just need to keep moving forward."</p><p>Sherlock turns his whole body towards John and slides closer. John's enraptured by how breathtaking Sherlock's eyes look at this angle. The usually ethereal shades of blue now a brighter shimmer of gold within the strands of his irises. A sunset upon an ocean wave calling him ever closer, and <em> Christ, </em> this man will be the death of him. </p><p>“This is hardly moving forward, Sherlock. This isn’t supposed to be happening anymore.” John sighs, and the sharp fingers of anxiety begin to crawl up his chest. </p><p>“Shh, just — can we enjoy this, for a moment?” </p><p>John sighs but agrees, bringing his free hand up to trace outlines across Sherlock’s chest. They should clean up, but he doesn’t want to move — doesn’t want to ruin this slice of peace, a fragment of what they’d had before. It feels so easy like this. Here, they know exactly how to talk to each other, how to ask for what they want and give in return. Why had they even broken up? He can’t remember. If every time was like that; <em>F</em><em>uck. </em> He couldn't think of one good reason why they’d stopped. </p><p>Sherlock closes the gap between them until their skin lies flush against each other; chest to chest. His curls are a tangle from what John’s hands can do when they have a defining purpose. John presses against him, savouring the contact, because he needs the closeness only Sherlock can give him. The next kiss is tentative and warm, with just the right amount of teeth and tongue. Long arms tighten around John’s middle, and they stay like this for who knows how long. Time slows to a crawl and John doesn’t care, but he knows that at some point this lapse in both of their judgements will have an expiration date. </p><p>“We should —” John starts but is stopped again by another kiss, his one with a tinge of desperation on the surface of Sherlock’s lips. John’s eyes slip shut as he returns the kiss, the lingering questions pushed away once more. He needs this. They both do, and that’s fine. They are allowed to be weak and reckless. </p><p>Eventually, they break away; Sherlock’s lips and cheeks stained with a rosiness that looks extraordinary against his lily-white skin. God, how John’s entire body and soul loves this man, and he’s lucky enough to drift off to the vision of Sherlock sleeping right beside him. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>John wakes slowly the next morning, brought gently from his slumber by the rays of soft sunlight streaming through the window. Instinctively, he reaches out beside him, searching for Sherlock. The bed beside him is empty, and John’s eyes snap open with the realisation that he is alone. A quick feel of the mattress shows that Sherlock’s been gone for a while — the sheet is cold beneath his hand, and when he finally makes his way out of the bedroom, the heavy Belstaff is gone from the rack by the door. </p><p>Sherlock’s out then. John checks his phone, but the only message is from Greg, asking if they were okay after their outburst the previous afternoon. He sends a quick reply, purposefully not telling him how that particular argument ended. John isn’t sure where they stand now. Was that it? One more night of...whatever <em> that </em> was, and now they’re back to normal? Well, at least as normal as they can be. Or is Sherlock expecting that to happen again? John’s not even sure which option is better, but they need to talk this through.</p><p>He searches the kitchen, hoping there’s a note somewhere, explaining where Sherlock had gone. Nothing. John grunts in frustration, rechecking his phone, hoping a message will have arrived. The inbox is still empty. He types a quick text, ‘<em> where are you?’ </em>and sends it, taking a deep breath and trying not to panic. Sherlock can look after himself. He isn’t obliged to keep John placated, especially not now, but it would have been nice to have been kept in the loop. </p><p>John opens the fridge, searching for something to eat, but he is greeted by nothing but a container of blood. He doesn’t have to look at the label to know it’s human. <em> He’s probably just popped to the shop, </em>John reasons, ignoring that Sherlock would rather starve than ‘pop to the shop’. </p><p>He spends the rest of the day alone, checking his phone every five minutes, hoping for a reply. He sends three more texts, each more desperate than the last. At around three o’clock, he heads out to the supermarket, hoping that the flat won’t be empty when he returns. He’s disappointed. John struggles up the stairs with the shopping bags, and his stomach sinks to find that no one has been in the flat since he left. </p><p>When John drops some items off to Mrs Hudson, he casually asks if she’s seen Sherlock. She informs him she hasn’t, but she’d heard someone shut the front door in the early hours of the morning. They spend the rest of the evening at 221a, Mrs Hudson beating him at card games and John trying to squash his climbing fears. Sherlock was fine. Something important had probably come up, he could handle it himself. </p><p>It isn’t until after two am, when John is seriously considering phoning Lestrade, that Sherlock returns. John is curled on the sofa with a cup of coffee, trying to watch reruns of The Great British Bake Off. He isn’t really paying attention, his mind has begun to spiral, and he can’t focus on the screen in front of him. </p><p>The sound of the front door clicking shut brings him from his uneasiness, and he sits up straight, resisting the urge to run to the door. </p><p>Sherlock slinks through the door without a word, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and throwing it onto the table. </p><p>“Hello?” John calls out, sitting forward in his chair and switching the television off. </p><p>“Hey,” Sherlock replies as if he’d not been gone all day, without a word to say where he’d been. He yawns and picks his laptop up from the table, sinking into his chair and opening the lid. John stares at him as Sherlock types vigorously for a few seconds before he speaks again.</p><p>“Is that it? ‘<em>Hey</em>’?” </p><p>Sherlock’s brow furrows as he looks up at John. </p><p>“What do you mean, is that it?”</p><p>John feels his heart thumping in his chest as Sherlock watches him as if genuinely confused. How the hell can a detective be this clueless?</p><p>“Where the fuck have you been?” </p><p>“My homeless network had some information for me — a possible connected death to the serial killer case at Hampstead Heath. I needed to go and check it out.” </p><p>“And what, you just couldn’t be bothered to tell me about it?” </p><p>Sherlock closes his laptop with a snap before crossing his arms. At least he now looks like the petulant child he’s acting like.</p><p>“I didn’t think you’d mind, you’ve said yourself that you don’t like getting up too early in the morning for case-related things.“</p><p>Of course Sherlock would take a small annoyance John had mentioned in the past and decide that there was only one way to deal with the situation. </p><p>“Sherlock, I don’t give a shit about being woken up to go with you for The Work or even you going off without me; I care that you didn’t leave so much as a note to tell me where you were! I was worried, you could have been dead in a ditch for all I knew.”</p><p>“But I’m <em> fine</em>, John.” </p><p><em> This. </em> This right here is why they didn’t work. Sherlock running off on his own, cutting John out of his life the moment a case came up. This coldness, the complete separation of The Work and their life together, this was the reason he’d had to walk away. John mentally kicks himself. Nothing was different. Nothing had changed. There was a reason why they didn’t do this anymore; why they had fallen apart. </p><p>“It’s...I just…” John starts but gives up trying to sort out his words. He’s too furious and too exhausted by the day and his own incredible talent of imagining all the ways Sherlock could have been hurt or killed if he wasn’t around to help protect him. “Never mind,” he settles on. The words feel heavy in his mouth as he says them. “What did you find out about the case, then? Any new leads?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next few days are an exercise in restraint. John swings wildly from wanting to strangle Sherlock for again making him worry like crazy, to John needing to act like the previous few days didn't happen and have another mind-blowing shag. Even just to be close — John already feels like he’s having withdrawals from the physical contact. He wants to touch again, to wrap his arms around the detective’s waist and breathe him in. His skin itches for it, and it’s all he can do to stop himself reaching out and pulling Sherlock towards him.</p><p>It doesn't help that Sherlock seems to view clothing as of late as a general bother. His nudity is on display in so many places in the flat that John might as well be living in a day spa with only one very posh member. John is apparently the staff, and practically cleans the flat top to bottom to mitigate his sexual frustration.</p><p>After a dinner that Sherlock barely eats, wrapped up in what John is fairly certain is one of his own bedsheets, John's practically on the verge of a meltdown. </p><p>"No," John shouts, as he slams his fist down onto the kitchen table. The sudden noise is enough to have Sherlock look up from his notepad and shoot over a puzzled expression. John scrubs his other hand over his weary face. </p><p>"Problem, John?"</p><p>The migraine that John's kept at bay all day makes a return appearance. </p><p>"Yes, Sherlock...problem. A big one, as a matter of fact."</p><p>The dark green bed sheet rustles as Sherlock sits up straighter to listen. With a pang of appreciation at Sherlock's attentiveness that John <em> really </em>doesn't need right now, he clears his throat. </p><p>"It's this whole...could you not do <em> this</em>?"</p><p>John lamely waves a hand at Sherlock and prays that he will use his vast deduction skills to work out the unsaid meaning. Instead, Sherlock blinks a few times and looks down at himself. </p><p>"Could I not do what? Sit in the kitchen? Write case notes while trying to eat your oversalted bolognese?"</p><p>John opens his mouth but immediately shuts it. </p><p>"What's wrong with my…" He shakes his head and gets to his feet, moving further away from Sherlock to gesture at his pitiful attempt at clothing. "No...it's the whole walking around naked all the time. Could you at least put on proper trousers once in a while?"</p><p>“It never bothered you before.”</p><p>“That's before I knew the exact angle to spread your legs apart to get to your prostate on the first go."</p><p>Sherlock huffs out a breath and begins to pick at dinner once more. </p><p>“Fine.” He says sharply, more to the bolognese than to John. </p><p>“It’s just, you’re acting like nothing has changed. Like we’re back to how we were before.” </p><p>“Then what was the other night?” Sherlock cocks his head, his face a perfect mask of authentic curiosity. </p><p>“The other night was a mistake,” John says, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He stands, taking a step towards John. </p><p>“It didn’t sound like you thought it was a mistake. In fact, if I remember rightly, it was you who initiated it.” </p><p>John flinches as if Sherlock has shouted, but of course he won't give John that satisfaction. Then John would be allowed to yell back without feeling guilty about it later. </p><p>"That's not the point!" he retorts. Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms. </p><p>"Like there is ever a point to any of the times that we <em> talk.</em>"</p><p>Sherlock spits out the last word with a venom that usually is reserved for his brother's name. John frowns but has no real idea as to where to go from here. </p><p>"You want us to be friends, but then you can only see me as your former lover. We have a lovely night, and you rail off as if we are still dating even though I am doing what I have always done, John. Maybe you should decide what you actually want, rather than attacking me all the time.”</p><p>It’s John’s turn to huff out a breath.</p><p>“What do you mean? I don’t—”</p><p>“This has clearly been bothering you all day, yet you waited until everything became too much to talk to me about it. You always do, you never say what you actually think, you wait until it becomes too much and turn it into an argument.” </p><p>Does he do that?  He's a doctor. He is specifically <em> trained </em> to discuss issues with difficult people like Sherlock. </p><p>“It’s exhausting sometimes," Sherlock continues. "I can deduce when something’s wrong, but I can’t read your mind. You actually have to talk to me sometimes.” </p><p>John feels like the world is the wrong way round, with Sherlock sounding incredibly reasonable with every point said. </p><p>"We were fighting all the time," John blurts out, trying to grasp at something. "How we were...it wasn't healthy for either of us."</p><p>“John, I’m not an idiot. I know we weren’t working before. But, why can’t we just have this? The other night was the first time I’ve felt calm for weeks. The first time I felt like we weren’t circling each other, waiting for the other to attack.” Again, John's mind is reeling with how much sense Sherlock is making right now. Even in nothing but a bedsheet. “You say you need boundaries, yet you don’t actually know what you want. I’m tired of trying to figure out how to act around you, so I don’t care anymore. You either want to be here, or you don’t, come back to me when you’ve figured it out. I’m going to bed.” And with that, Sherlock sweeps out and into his room, letting the door shut loudly behind him. </p><p>John is left in shock, standing staring at Sherlock’s empty seat. He was constantly analysing Sherlock’s actions, he’d forgotten to take a look at himself. </p><p>John cleans the dishes in a daze, Sherlock’s last words ringing in his ears. What did he want? Ideally, he wanted everything. He wanted things to be easy, to be allowed to have a partnership without jumping down each other’s throats all the time. But he couldn’t have that, the last six months proved that much. </p><p>But did that mean it was all or nothing? </p><p>He lay in bed later that evening, his thoughts chasing themselves around his head. What Sherlock had been proposing, would it work? Could they have physical contact, still bring each other pleasure, without being partners? Other people had done it, could they? </p><p>Sherlock obviously gave little emotional weight to sex. Could this solve the problem of their fighting, if they were able to blow off steam without the expectations of an actual relationship? John can’t help but think of all the red flags, all the reasons it could go wrong, but, he realises, he actually wants it. He’s tired of holding back. If they could define times to give themselves over to each other, then the moments in between could be easier. They would need ground rules, of course, but it could work. </p><p>John doesn’t realise that he’s made up his mind until he’s walking back down the stairs, cringing at each creak of the steps under his feet. </p><p>He pauses, his fist centimetres away from Sherlock’s door. Doubt crawls back into his mind — is this a good idea? He pushes it away and forces himself to knock on the door. It opens too quickly, as if Sherlock had been waiting for him on the other side. </p><p>“Hi,” John says, and he winces. How stupid did that sound? </p><p>“Hello.” </p><p>“So, I’ve been thinking. And I think — I think I want this. God help me, Sherlock, I want a whole lot more than I can have, but you were right. The other night was the easiest this has been for a long time, and I want more of that. So why can’t we? What rules are there that we can’t just have that, without any of the other crap?” John takes a deep breath, hoping that he’s making the right decision. That they can just be friends, who occasionally slide into the other’s bed. </p><p>Instead of answering, Sherlock takes John’s hand in his and pulls him gently into the room. There’s a moment where they pause, each looking into the other’s eyes, searching for some reason not to do this. John can think of a million, but he pushes them aside and leans forward until their lips finally meet. John feels the tension leave his body with the first quivering touch, and he melts into Sherlock's hands. This. More of this. </p><p>Sherlock moves to press delicate kisses along his jaw, behind his ear, and down his neck. Each one makes John shiver, and he feels his knees become weak. It takes everything to remind himself that he’s not finished, that there’s more he has to say. They can’t just plough forward with abandon, they need to work this out properly. </p><p>“Wait, we need ground rules —” Sherlock gives an annoyed groan and lifts himself off, his eyes flickering back and forth over John’s face. “No staying the night. That was a mistake last time, it can’t happen again. We’re not together anymore, we can’t fall back into that routine.” </p><p>“Is that all?” Sherlock goes to dive forwards again, eyes fixed on the curve of John’s jaw.</p><p>“Just wait, you git. This is important. No talking about this with anyone else. Not Lestrade, not Molly.“</p><p>“Fine, but that means you can’t tell Harry either.” Sherlock challenges, raising an eyebrow. John feels something pull at his chest, and his stomach flips a little. Sherlock knows damn well that he’d never told Harry in the first place. </p><p>“You arsehole.” He chokes out, but there’s no malice behind it. It’s not Sherlock he’s mad at, and Sherlock's deep rumbling chuckle vibrates at the base of John's throat as he is kissed there over and over again. Familiar hands undo his belt and zipper with a grace that John will never possess, but adores more than he can explain. "Enough talk. Take me to bed."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Being Seen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Sherlock: Six months earlier</strong></span>
</p><p>It only took Sherlock about 48 hours to get the basics of the spreadsheet down. He started off with a list of absolute dos and don'ts, based on obvious deductions and mutterings during pillow talk. Then, just like the best strategies, he built up from there. The categorising of what brought John to orgasm the quickest and slowest; the moans that elicited the longest streams of ejaculation; foods that John preferred best before and after sex and what times of day and night John was more in the mood.</p><p>Within a few weeks, he saw significant progress in an affirmative direction. John’s mood elevated dramatically as Sherlock explored and documented more. Still, there were nuances that Sherlock needed to dissect. Receiving blow jobs in the morning was a favourite for John, but after John ended up late to the surgery because a very focused Sherlock spent the morning sucking his cock, it was decided by both that early-rise fellatio should be only for when John had nowhere to be before noon.</p><p>Sherlock had been careful not to let John see what he was up to, but there had been a few close calls when Sherlock had been too wrapped up in gathering information. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, inputting additional data from the night before, and almost didn't notice John walking up behind him. He barely managed to change the tab before John read what was on the screen. From that point on, he resolved to only do major updates when John was asleep.</p><p>John couldn’t know. Most importantly, he would affect the data if he knew that his responses were being recorded. But Sherlock also had this deep, sinking feeling that this was one of those things that John considered ‘not good’. John didn’t understand. He needed this — needed the rigid structure and familiarity that the data could provide. Numbers couldn’t lie. He knew how to interpret numbers. It was the key to keeping John happy. So he persevered, sneaking into the bathroom with his laptop during the day or waiting until John had called it a night before opening the spreadsheet and inputting the data.</p><p>What irritated him beyond all else, however, were the things he couldn’t control. Sex was quantifiable. There was a ratio: Sherlock could control how much pleasure was derived, could maximise the happiness gained and measure that against the success of their relationship. John couldn’t fake the results; they were easy to measure and hard to misinterpret. John’s emotions, however, were not. Sherlock found it difficult to understand John’s layered messages when the smile on his face didn’t match the look in his eyes. His moods were not easy to plot and measure. Sherlock could not, despite trying, predict which days John would have a short fuse — those days he would wake with a dark cloud above his head, or the nights where he’d be wrenched from sleep by his own screaming. Sherlock desperately wanted to plot them out — find formulas and build graphs to help him predict when those days were coming, so he could reduce their frequency as much as possible. Yet they were seemingly patternless, coming out of the blue when Sherlock least expected them. So he made a point of playing his violin when John became restless, or kissing him more the day after the night time terrors. Little blue ticks went into the calendar when these strategies were successful, and red lines through the days when nothing seemed to work at all.</p><p>There was a rotation of days that Sherlock kept special track of; when they went out on what John jokingly deemed proper dates. Most times Angelo’s was the restaurant of choice, but occasionally John suggested little eateries near the surgery or Sherlock would convince John to wear better trousers and head out to a more lavish supper full of rich meats and the finest of wines.</p><p>“Holy shit,” John muttered as he eyed the menu, and Sherlock gave a frown.</p><p>“Stop being worried about the cost, John…”</p><p>“This steak tartar is the price of a small house in Bristol. I’m sure of it.”</p><p>Sherlock sighed and pulled the menu out of John’s hands and placed it on the table, right as the server swooped in with fresh wine.</p><p>“We’d like the steak tartar and the blue cheese wedge salads to start,” Sherlock said to the server whilst John made small noises of annoyance. “And if you could keep the wine coming. John needs it to prevent the stroke he seems determined to have.”</p><p>John grumbled something that sounded very much like piss off, and Sherlock chuckled back before picking up his own glass of wine and waiting for John to follow suit. John did, with a soft smile before raising his eyebrows.</p><p>“Are we toasting to anything specific? Your desire to drive me nuts before entrees, or something different?”</p><p>“That hardly needs a toast,” Sherlock smirked. “Instead, I toast to our ever-growing partnership.”</p><p>John smiled brightly as their glasses clinked together, and Sherlock watched as John’s cheeks went rather pink before giving another small adjustment to his tie. Sherlock’s smile mirrored John’s at how nervous John could be whenever they dined somewhere with even a slightly higher price range. Didn’t John realise that he was worth showing off in places like this?</p><p>“Here you are,” the server said as he placed the appetiser on the table along with the salads. “Anything else I can get for you, or your friend?” He looked at John expectantly. Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for John to correct him.</p><p>“No, thank you, that’s fine for now,” John replied, unwrapping his cutlery from his napkin and looking down at his plate. No correction? After months of letting anyone in the vicinity know that Sherlock was most definitely not his boyfriend, was he not going to correct anyone who presumed otherwise?</p><p>“Why do you assume he’s my friend?” Sherlock asked the server before he had a chance to vacate the table. “We’re sitting in a five-star restaurant, dressed in high-end suits, and quite clearly not discussing business. Why would you assume he’s merely my friend?”</p><p>The third man’s eyes blew wide with shock, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“If one of us was a woman, you would never have thought that we were merely friends. You would have automatically assumed that we were on a date. So, why did you not make the same conclusion about us?”</p><p>“Sherlock,” John warned, a scarlet blush creeping up from his shirt collar.</p><p>“No, I want to make it clear that we are here together. As romantic partners. Just because we’re two men does not mean that this is not a date.”</p><p>“We don’t need to do this here,” John whispered loudly, leaning forward across the table.</p><p>“Why not?” Sherlock replied at a normal volume. “Are you embarrassed to be here with me?”</p><p>The server made a fast getaway with a hasty excuse about getting them more wine. “On the house!” Sherlock’s gaze stayed frozen on John.</p><p>“No, of course not. We just don’t need to go correcting everyone who doesn’t realise—”</p><p>“You corrected everyone before. You were faultless about it.”</p><p>John paused at that. He stayed, still and silent, eyes slowly tracing over Sherlock’s face, thinking of something to say. Sherlock felt his own pulse quicken, and a flurry of emotions passed through his stomach and chest.</p><p>“That was…” John glanced around quickly before bending over to make sure that only Sherlock could hear him. “That was different. Things have changed now...and you know that.”</p><p>“How?” Sherlock hissed. “Give me one instance where you pointedly told anyone, on your own accord, that we’re romantically involved.”</p><p>Sherlock had known John long enough to see the signs of him struggling for a valid answer. The sick feeling inside of him doubled in intensity.</p><p>“That isn’t fair…” John settled on, his face very tense. “This is all new and—“</p><p>“Have you even told your sister about us? Probably one of the only people who would understand the general hurdles that we are facing.”</p><p>If anything John’s expression became even tenser. His eyes darted from Sherlock to what was, more than likely, the quickest exit out of the restaurant.</p><p>“I barely speak to Harry,” John snapped. “And even if I did somehow go insane enough to tell my car-crash of a sister that I decided to pursue a…”</p><p>John’s words died in his mouth as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.</p><p>“Look,” he started over. “Let’s not do this here, right? I’m sorry about not correcting the server. No need to have that ruin our night.”</p><p>Sherlock snatched his hand out of John’s reach as he tried to touch him. This wasn’t about ruining anything. This was about John’s inability to be truthful.</p><p>“I’ve lost my appetite for anything happening at this table, or after it.”</p><p>With a surge of satisfaction at John’s deep frown, Sherlock waved over the server and asked for the bill. They spent the cab ride home in silence, John staring soldier-like out of the front window, and Sherlock leaning his chin on his hand, watching the lampposts as they passed by. He recognised an adjacent street and asked the cabbie to stop, ignoring John’s confused glare as he slid out of his seat.</p><p>“I’ll meet you at home,” Is all he said as he slammed the door shut.</p><p>Sherlock turned a couple of corners until he found himself on Wardour Street. It was busy, usual for a Friday night, the clubs and pubs spilling out onto the pavement with their assortment of colourful patrons. The windows above were dressed with flags; bright reds, oranges, pinks and blues standing proud against the brickwork. He wasn’t the loud type — he’d never been to a pride parade or waved the rainbow flag, but every so often it was a solace to remind himself that this place existed. That deep in the heart of London, there was a haven just for people like him. <em>People like us,</em> <em>John</em>. His brain supplied. He glanced down a narrow side street and caught sight of the bar where he lost his virginity; pushed against a bathroom stall by a dark-haired stranger. Seventeen and sneaking into bars with his fake ID and winning smile. It was easier, then. Knowing he could walk into any bar he wanted and have whomever he chose. He could discard them in the morning, wait out the hangover on the long train home and pretend he’d been with friends all night. Not that his parents ever asked. Mycroft gave him odd looks across the breakfast table and left boxes of condoms and reminders to get tested under his pillow, but he never confronted Sherlock about it. In those days, and the days after, swallowing down strangers for his next hit, he never had to care about what they thought.</p><p>He had always known he was different. Had always known where his attractions lay, and it had never been a big deal, for him. His parents had been progressive enough to not ask invasive questions or expect him to come home with anyone he fancied. But still, they never talked about it. No one mentioned how he never brought girlfriends home like Mycroft, or how the pictures of Alan Turing and Steven Pinker on his wall weren’t purely ‘for science’. It was as if he didn’t exist.</p><p>At school, no one acknowledged that there was anything other than monogamous heterosexual relationships, and he was laughed at when, during their sex ed classes, he dared ask the teacher how same-sex couples worked. She ignored him, but the boys bullied him for it for the rest of the year. He simply didn’t exist. It was the difference between being odd, which he brandished like a badge of honour, and being queer. That was harder to subjugate with a snarky comeback or a scoff of indifference. One was tangible, an undeniable indicator of how he was unlike the other kids in his class, and one was invisible. The clubs made it easier to skitter across the surface of acceptance. Lingering looks that were meant for a night of fun helped Sherlock last through another exhausting week of keeping himself protected. No one stayed long enough to see the heart beneath, but it was a relief to be allowed to exist without the constraints of the real world. Here, he didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.</p><p>It was like that with John. At least, up until the last hour. That John had accepted him regardless. His idiosyncrasies had been brilliant and extraordinary, yet it obviously wasn’t enough. He shivered at that, though he half excused it on the evening chill. The lights of the nearest club beckoned him with promises of warm drinks and faded memories. He strode towards it with a stiff nod to the couple of people he passed along the way.</p><p>The bar was crowded, warm bodies pushing against each other in the dim light, but he found a secluded seat in the corner and ordered a whisky. He swirled it around the glass, trying to order his thoughts into neat files. He didn’t care about the restaurant, the casual undermining of their relationship by John, not anymore. He was scared of the person he’d become — the one that fought for validation from strangers, that wanted people to look at John and know that he was his. He had never been that person, the one that saw injustices in every fold of the world and fought to make them right. Oh, he admired those people, but he preferred to blend into the background, unobserved. But today, today had been different, and he couldn’t understand why.</p><p>“Hey, I’ve not seen you here before.” A voice sidled up next to him, and Sherlock glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. The young man was wearing a tight red shirt, skinny jeans and an expression that he absolutely wanted to be ripped out of both pieces of clothing. Sherlock sipped out of his glass before turning to face the man.</p><p>“Been a while since my last time,” Sherlock answered dryly.</p><p>The young man smiled and moved a little closer.</p><p>“That’s a shame, but you’re here now. All that matters. What are you drinking? I’d be happy to refill it for you with something more expensive, if you like.”</p><p>Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. If anything, he should feel flattered. The man was young and attractive, and clearly interested. Once, he was the type that Sherlock would have easily taken somewhere quick and secluded, but that felt like centuries ago.</p><p>“I’m fine with what I have,” Sherlock answered, and the guy’s smile flickered.</p><p>“Oh, it’s just a drink…” the guy said smoothly. “I mean, you’re all dressed up and looking fantastic, darling. You must have made plans for the evening.”</p><p>He had, but not with Skin Tight and Horny. Sherlock cleared his throat before handing the drink to the young man. “You’ll need this more than me with those awful lines. If you’ll excuse me…”</p><p>He slipped back out of the door and into the cool evening air. It washed over his face and he closed his eyes, taking in a deep lungful and relishing the burn that seeped into the crevices of his lungs. There was a time, not long ago, that Sherlock wouldn’t have thought twice about following the man home, or into a by-the-hour hotel room. It surprised him now, that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He had wished, beyond reason, that John had been beside him, ready to tell the young bloke exactly where he could put his drink. He could almost hear the giggles that would erupt from them afterwards, once that thirst trap wannabe had retreated with his tail between his legs.</p><p>There was an ache in Sherlock’s heart; one that he wasn’t sure how to shake. It felt torn — one half broken and bleeding in his chest, and the other half across London, alone in a cab, headed to Baker Street. For the first time, he didn’t want the chase. Didn’t want the adrenaline pumping in his system as he followed a stranger across the bar; didn’t want the uncertainty, the wondering if this would be the one he took home. Didn’t want to be alone, wondering where the next hit, either pharmaceutical or biological, would come from. What he wanted — he didn’t want to think about what he wanted. The implications felt too heavy. To admit that somehow, this was different. That he cared about the man residing at Baker Street, that more than anything, more than sex and drugs and cases and criminals, he wanted to be home, with him.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Battlefield</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>John: Present day</b></span>
</p><p>John wakes up, and his eyes immediately flutter closed again. The sun streaming from his window helps him recall that he did indeed make it back to his room after last night. His exhaustion ripples through all of his limbs as he stretches, yawns and reaches over to the bedside table to grab his phone. With a press of a button, he sighs with relief that it’s barely past 9:00am, then drops his mobile back in its place on the nightstand. </p><p>The bedroom door creaks open seconds later, and John opens his eyes once more to find Sherlock slinking in and crawling onto the mattress. His ebony curls are tousled by sleep, but still lovely to behold.</p><p>“Hey,” John mumbles as Sherlock leans over and nuzzles his face into the crook of John’s neck. The beginning of stubble tickles John as he hums at the closeness. “You miss me that quick?”</p><p>Sherlock gives a passive shrug as he pulls away and begins to press soft kisses into John’s upper torso. He pauses to give extra special attention to each of John’s nipples and John grunts in approval. His hand reaches up and tangles into the dark hair as Sherlock continues his mouth down further.</p><p>“Are you at the surgery today?” Sherlock asks between kisses. </p><p>“Yes,” John sighs, then groans as Sherlock hovers over his inner thigh. “But not until after two o’clock. Remember I told you that a new doctor came on staff to deal with the morning crowd on—“</p><p>Sherlock closes the gap from his lips to the space between John’s inner thigh and left testicle, and gives a long lick. John gasps at the heat and clever tongue work. </p><p>“Good…” Sherlock whispers. “Then I have your permission to carry on?”</p><p>John’s chuckle turns into another gasp as Sherlock opens his mouth wider and sucks the delicate skin of his sac. The steady pressure is already getting John so hard that he almost feels dizzy. </p><p>“Yes,” John moans, and reaches down to stroke himself. “Carry on as much...as you like.”</p><p>John tilts his head up to watch Sherlock’s body. His artistic hands know just where to touch him to make his skin tingle. John had gone to bed naked more out of exhaustion than comfort, but it makes this morning even more sultry. His nudity is a heavenly contrast to Sherlock in his dressing gown and nightclothes. The smooth sensation of silk brushes his sensitive arousal as Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s erection and takes over the speed. </p><p>“I’m already so close,” John admits. His tongue swipes over his lips, and the bed dips beside him as Sherlock adjusts his position. Sherlock takes the head of John’s cock into his mouth and smoothly slides down. John chokes out a cry at the feeling, and his hips take on a life of their own and give a small thrust. </p><p>Sherlock’s chuckle reverberates down John’s shaft, and John echoes him between groans. </p><p>“Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just, god, your <em> mouth… </em>”</p><p>Instead of a reply, Sherlock gives him another lick along the slit, before sucking the tip into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the edges as John digs his fingers into the sheets. </p><p>John attempts to moan out a warning, but nothing he says is intelligible, except for Sherlock’s name, repeated over and over until John pulses hot and hard into Sherlock’s waiting mouth. The tension of the moment floats into a dreamy sluggishness that has John thankful that two o’clock is hours away.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It works, for a while. Their casual arrangement. The tension fades, replaced with the easy air of their earlier days. Whenever an argument begins to build — John’s frustrations threatening to boil over or Sherlock pacing fretfully over a case — they crash into each other's arms and fall into bed. There’s a nagging feeling at the back of John’s head that this can’t work, that each spat avoided is just another one brushed under the rug, but he can’t bring himself to care enough. He’s having too much fun. </p><p>They take more risks, focussing on the sum of their pleasure more than anything else. Outside the confines of their relationship, it feels easier to ask for what they want, not worry about what the other person will think of their requests. They steal away into a supply closet at the yard; almost get each other off in the back of a cab, and have great fun finding out how much weight the kitchen table will hold. </p><p>If Lestrade realises, he never lets on. He gives them a few curious glances, especially when both look a little too pink-cheeked, but never confronts them. John is grateful. They’d agreed not to tell anyone about this arrangement, but John isn’t sure he could lie directly to Lestrade. </p><p>Much to John’s surprise, they stick to the rest of the ground rules. He hadn’t really expected Sherlock to listen to him, but it is the detective who frequently reminds him not to stay the night or get too comfortable with platonic physical contact.  </p><p>It’s not what John had before with Sherlock, but this helps him keep his sanity. Not true relief, but enough to keep the sharper edges dulled. The steady stream of orgasms keep both of them from screaming at the darker moments of their days, and that’s good enough. It has to be. </p><p>A couple of weeks into their new arrangement, John feels fairly smug after a late-night snog that quickly gave way to Sherlock babbling something during his orgasm that sounded vaguely French. John can't help smiling off and on at the surgery, much to a few of the other doctors' curious eyes. </p><p>“You look like you’ve had a nice night,” Sarah says with a grin. “May want to try to keep that happy mood for the gargoyle in room five.”</p><p>John rolls his eyes playfully at Sarah as he grabs the chart from the wall outside the room and heads inside. His shock at who is sitting in the chair beside the examination table is such a punch to the gut that John is amazed he’s still standing.</p><p>“Nice to see your extracurricular activities at Baker Street haven't destroyed your promptness, Dr Watson.”</p><p>Mycroft taps his umbrella on the linoleum floor as John tries to get a hold of his faculties. It’s one thing to be kidnapped by the older Holmes in the middle of the city, but quite another to be ambushed at John’s workplace. </p><p>“And what do I owe this…” John begins, before frowning deeply. “Definitely not pleasure. Quite the opposite. Misery? Yeah, that works.” John internally smirks at the affronted look on Mycroft’s face. Good to get his kicks in whilst he can. </p><p>“I thought that you’d be more appreciative of me coming onto...your preferred battlefield, so to speak.” </p><p>“No battlefields here, I’m afraid. What do you want, Mycroft?” John immediately feels his shoulders tensing, straightening out, puffing his chest outwards. </p><p>“I want you to stop sleeping with my brother.” </p><p>The sentence is jagged and sharp, cutting lines through the air as it falls on the table between them. Out of everything, that is not what John was expecting.</p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p>“You heard, Dr Watson.” </p><p>“How—? Nope, don’t want to know.” John shakes his head, trying to dislodge the question of how Mycroft knew what they were getting up to. If he didn’t know, it couldn’t bother him. “Why would you care?” </p><p>Mycroft sniffs as if the thought displeases him. “My brother likes to pretend he is a robot. Or a sociopath, to put it in his terms. He is, in fact, neither. I am afraid that your self-loathing will hurt him more than you think.” </p><p>“My — what the hell are you implying?” </p><p>“You know exactly what I’m implying, Dr Watson.” Mycroft stands, adjusting his waistcoat to lie flat against his chest.  “What do you see when you look in the mirror?”</p><p>John hesitates, waiting for the catch. He glances over Mycroft’s shoulder to the computer screen. His reflection stares back at him. “I...I see a doctor. A soldier. A bloke who wants to punch you in the fucking nose. Why?” </p><p>“Pity how bisexual man didn’t even make the top three. What does that say about you, Dr Watson?” </p><p>“That my sexuality doesn’t define me.” John quickly retorts. He stands with his feet a shoulder-width apart, his back ramrod straight and chin raised; ready for war. He will not be belittled by the likes of Mycroft Holmes. So what if the first thing he thought of wasn’t his sexuality? He is more than that. </p><p>Mycroft purses his lips and looks John up and down very slowly. “Your internalised biphobia is hardly a secret. I had merely hoped that Sherlock would not be on the receiving end of it.”</p><p>“You have no right—”</p><p>“Oh, I have every right. My baby brother is many things, Dr Watson. He’s arrogant, petty and childish. He also has the frustrating ability to seek out the most harmful things in the world and reach for them without a second’s hesitation. I wish you to reconsider being yet another burn he’ll have scars over.”</p><p>It takes a tremendous amount of self-control to not just walk out of the room and have Mycroft escorted off the premises. Somewhere in the more rational part of John’s mind, he knows that even if he does this, Mycroft will more than likely just swoop by the flat for an even longer talk. Best to just get all of this out now instead of later. </p><p>“Sherlock is an adult, as you seem to continuously forget. What we do is no one’s business but our own, and despite your needless concerns, we happen to be doing well this time around. So your meddling and threats are not welcomed, Mycroft.”</p><p>“And how will your attitude change if Sherlock doesn’t take your eventual breakup with such grace as the first time around? What if his withdrawal from you is less tenable than any of his more...substantive vices?”</p><p>“Are you calling my relationship with your brother a drug substitution?” John cocks his head, resisting the urge to punch that ridiculously pointed nose. What the hell is Mycroft playing at, comparing him to Sherlock’s addictions? John is not an object for Sherlock to pick up and put down. He’s not some fix — a chemical boost to be moderated and locked. He is a person. An actual human being who can make his own choices. As is Sherlock, for that matter. </p><p>Mycroft begins to walk towards the door, his umbrella swinging lightly in his hand. He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and turns to address John. </p><p>“Hardly, Dr Watson. You’re much worse. Cocaine never loved him back.” Mycroft gives him one last glance and slips out of the door, his umbrella clicking against the linoleum floor as he walks down the hallway. </p><p>John is left unmoving in the examination room, his attentive stance faltering with each passing second. Usually, he can block out the world, adorn the armour of Captain Watson and deflect the scorn of men like Mycroft. But not even that can help him now</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Holding onto you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six months earlier</b></span>
</p><p>When Sherlock snuck back into the flat, at well past midnight, 221b was quiet. The stairs creaked in the darkness, announcing his return to the empty sitting room. John’s coat lay on the back of his chair as if taken off in a hurry, and his dress shoes were placed under the coffee table. The deduction spoke for itself. John had come back in a rush to throw off the clothing he only wore because he knew Sherlock adored it when he dressed up, but John’s discomfort could only be held at bay for so long. </p><p>The flat felt emptier than usual. Sherlock was no stranger to being alone; he liked being surrounded by night, visiting places that, by day, should be bustling with people — places full of life and humanity. At night it felt as if he’d been let in on a secret; he could see the bones of the buildings for what they really were. But this, this was too much. Baker Street felt gutted without John there to greet him. In reality, Sherlock knew that John was only in the next room, probably already asleep, but it felt as if there were a rift between them. Sherlock sat on the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. He was acting irrational, and he needed to stop. Closing his eyes, he began to count the relevant indisputable facts about the situation. Cause and effect. Absolutes for him to sort through the halls of his mind palace. </p><p>He wanted to be with John. That was a fact. They worked well together on cases — John was smart and clever enough to keep up with Sherlock. Attractive and brave; confident and brilliant in bed. There was more. There was always more. He shifted on the sofa as he let his thoughts race, and finally, it struck him. </p><p>The restaurant had scared him. John was bringing out a side of Sherlock he hadn’t anticipated; this side that <em> cared </em>. He wanted people to see them and know, beyond doubt, that he belonged to John. He had begun to feel an ache in his chest whenever John was away for too long; had begun to mould his routine around the doctor, so that John was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw at night. When silence fell between them, he had begun to feel to urge to fill it with questions, if only to hear John speak. To listen to that familiar voice and find safety within it. To listen to the soft sounds John made when he settled against Sherlock on the sofa, and know that John made that choice of closeness. </p><p>He hauled himself off the sofa and made it to his bedroom, but the door was already ajar, a clear sign that John was there. Sherlock had long connected that John’s deep-seeded military training required him to keep tabs on his surroundings. Usually, that manifested in him sleeping lightly in new places, never trusting that they wouldn’t be ambushed in the middle of the night. He slept by the door at home, ready to spring out of bed in case of an emergency. Now, whilst Sherlock was absent, the door must have been left open so John could hear Sherlock the moment he returned. It was a level of protection Sherlock never knew he could appreciate, wrapped in the arms of an ever-present soldier. </p><p>John was curled up on Sherlock's side of the bed. Sherlock smiled to himself, imagining, but not wanting to believe, that John had gravitated to the empty space in order to get as close to the ghost of Sherlock as possible. He quietly undressed and pulled on his nightclothes. Sherlock’s eyes stayed on John as he twisted into a different position. The soft puffs of breath as he exhaled were small and sharp, which usually meant dreams filled with painful echoes of his time in service. </p><p>Usually, Sherlock would whisper John’s name in these situations. It helped John wake up to the sound of a lulling voice, but tonight Sherlock instinctively touched his hand to John’s right shoulder. The gentle caress was enough for John to open his eyes, and the tenseness in his face left at once.</p><p>“You’re home,” John muttered, his tone oddly fragile, as if Sherlock were indeed a ghost that might disappear if John spoke too loudly. </p><p>“I’m home...yes,” Sherlock whispered back, and with a sudden jolt of joy John pulled him down into the bed and hugged him with all the might he could possess at a quarter after midnight. </p><p>Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he hugged him back. The steady warmth and heaviness was as splendid as any shock blanket. John was here and missed him. John was hope and light, and that meant more than anything awful that they had been through, didn’t it?</p><p>“I’m sorry about what…” John began, his words somewhat muffled as his lips were against Sherlock’s neck. “...it’s...I have no excuse for how I acted, or more how I <em> didn't </em> act. What a shit boyfriend I am.”</p><p>“It’s fine, John. Go back to sleep.” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair, pulling him closer and taking a deep inhalation of the remnants of John’s cologne; sage and cedarwood. They were here, now, in each other’s arms. That was all that mattered. John shook his head as if he didn’t want their talk to be over, but his sleepiness was winning the battle. </p><p>Sherlock held him as tight as he could as John began to relax. All the while, he went through the parts of the evening that had gone right and wrong. How much it stung that John hadn’t corrected the server, and how, just a few moments earlier, they had toasted their relationship. John was all genuine smiles and gentle touches one moment, and denial the next. It was maddening how complicated John made everything. Would there ever be a time when they could just <em> be </em>? </p><p>“Missed you,” John slurred so sleepily that Sherlock barely understood the confession. “Flat feels so empty when...not here.”</p><p>John drifted back to sleep quickly, his breaths shallowing out and his grip weakening. Sherlock stayed awake, running his fingers in small circles over John’s back, counting each rise and fall of his chest. This could be enough, couldn’t it? Even if no one else ever knew, if John never found the courage to tell his sister or confirm their relationship in public, they would still have this. Each other.</p><p>That was enough, and the power of the realisation quaked Sherlock onto the precipice of tears. He shuddered into John’s stilled form as the comprehension of his emotions settled into the empty spaces on the mattress, and thank God John wasn’t awake to witness this weakness. Sherlock flaunted his intrinsic expertise to deduce all of the data into inevitable conclusions, and yet here in the dozy caress of a wounded army doctor, the confirmation blindsided him.</p><p>Sherlock wanted whatever John would give him, in whatever measure he was allowed. Sherlock wanted to wake up to the sight of John and his naked bodies, twisted into the shapes that came with sex and the closeness that came afterwards. Sherlock wanted every version of John’s smiles and frowns and all of the emotions in between. He wanted to grow old and eventually die with John, and suddenly their fight in the restaurant seemed not only silly, but remarkably irrelevant. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They didn't talk directly about the restaurant again. John had seemed as if he’d wanted to, that first night, twisted around each other, but come morning, he never mentioned a word. Sherlock didn’t push it. He was unsure how he’d bring it up, how to resolve the tension that he was now carrying around with him. As the days passed, it became harder and harder to broach the conversation. So he didn’t. </p><p>As it happened, murder had a way of fixing Sherlock’s problems. The yard found another body, and Lestrade had wasted no time texting Sherlock. This one was badly decomposed and left out in a child’s playground, an obvious deviation from the killer’s previous MO. John was already grabbing his coat before Sherlock could give him all of the general information. </p><p>“You can tell me on the way,” John said quickly, as he handed Sherlock his Belstaff and held open the front door for Sherlock to walk ahead of him. John hailed a cab before Sherlock had a chance to, and the detective quirked an eyebrow at John, who was taking more initiative than normal for a case. There were usually a dozen questions and side discussions before they even got proper clothes on, but here John was going along with The Work without a second thought. </p><p>“Prince of Wales Road, Camden ” Sherlock instructed the driver. “Take the fastest route possible.”</p><p>The driver gave a curt nod and began to drive. Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and sent off a few texts, two to Lestrade saying that they’d be there within the fifteen minutes, and making sure Anderson stayed out of his way unless otherwise instructed. The last text to Molly was halfway written,  requesting a second toxicology report, when Sherlock stopped at the sensation of John’s hand on his knee.</p><p>“John?”</p><p>“Hmm?” John answered, and Sherlock sensed the forced casualness, even in such a short response. </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>John furrowed his brow before clearing his throat. “I’m just...your hands were busy with texts so I figured that you’d be all right with...sorry.” </p><p>He pulled his hand away and turned to look out of the window. Sherlock was so shaken that he forgot to text Molly all together. What was that about?</p><p>John kept his hands to himself for the rest of the journey, and Sherlock pushed the question out of his mind, focussing instead on researching Talacre Park and the surrounding area. The overground ran along the back of the park, with only the Prince of Wales Medical Centre buffering the railway and the park itself. A main road ran along the east side of the park, but it was large enough that you couldn’t see the west side from the road. Plenty of residential buildings on all sides — someone must have seen something. It was hardly a secluded place to dump a body; either the killer wanted to be found, or the place had a particular significance. </p><p>Lestrade met them at the entrance and showed them where the body was found. He looked tense as he led them to the area surrounded by police tape and a fairly large portion of The Yard. The difference to the earlier victims was immediately apparent; this body was heavily decomposed and looked as though it had been moved from a different location, judging by how shallow the grave was and how frequently this park was used. </p><p>The pieces of clothing that still managed to cling to the body looked reasonably expensive, although the man inside of them looked very down on his luck. He had a scraggly beard and very long fingernails, along with shoes that appeared to have been worn out to the point of falling apart. The clothes didn’t match the man's appearance — someone wearing what was, at one point, a nice three-piece suit would have taken better care of their general appearance. A decoy, perhaps?</p><p>A singular key was in the left pocket of his trousers, exactly the same make as the other victims. Sherlock leaned down to check the watch on the man's left wrist. Rolex, about five years old. It was still ticking; although the time was off by an hour, therefore the murder must have taken place at least a month ago, before daylight savings time started. A wide smirk split through Sherlock’s face. So far, everything was pointing to this being an earlier victim, which meant the killer would have been sloppier. </p><p>"Tell me everything you have so far," Sherlock demanded, his attention still laser focussed on the victim. Finally, there was something he could work with. </p><p>"A mother found him out here this early morning," Lestrade replied. "Not the best way to start your morning...anyway, he has the marks of being strangled, even with all the decomp. The forensics team placed his death at about a month prior, but hard to tell with all the dirt and the cold weather. We should get a better idea once Molly gets a look at him.”</p><p>Sherlock tilted his head to see a small area of red-pigmented dirt in the treads of the man's right shoe. His eyes flashed to John. </p><p>"The body was buried in a previous location," he began. "Look at the dirt. It's a fine type of clay used in landscaping. It’s used in domestic gardens, and there is no sign of that clay anywhere in this park. More than likely the killer dug up the victim and placed him here. A homeless man by the looks of his general appearance, but redressed him in better clothing to try and keep us off the scent.”</p><p>“Brilliant!” John exclaimed. Sherlock paused, taken aback by the praise. It wasn’t unusual for John to compliment his mental prowess; he just hadn’t done it for months. And this wasn’t particularly spectacular, anyone could have seen the evidence if they’d tried hard enough. The yard may be full of idiots, but Lestrade at least had some sense. </p><p>He continued, his eyes flickering over to John every so often. </p><p>“Check until the fingernails and around the neck. This was an earlier victim, perhaps one of the first, and the killer would have been sloppy. There might be DNA evidence there.” </p><p>“Extraordinary!” John praised again, and Sherlock flashed him a quizzical glare. This was the equivalent of Sherlock praising John for getting dressed in the morning. What was he playing at? </p><p>Although, he couldn’t deny that a small shiver ran down his spine at the praise. It settled somewhere between his legs, and he had to take a sharp breath to focus himself back on the task at hand. Luckily neither John or Lestrade seemed to notice. </p><p>“Lestrade, can I have a sample of the clay from his shoe? I’ll take it to the lab and get a head start on pinpointing where the body was immediately buried. It must have been a wet area — there’s more decomposition than would have been expected. John, do you think that the cause of death was definitely strangulation? I am fairly convinced that this is connected to the rest of the killings, but I need to be certain.” </p><p>John made his way closer to Sherlock and bent down onto his right knee to look more closely. "Looks like it, yeah. The skin is still intact enough for the bruising to be visible." </p><p>“In the same pattern as before?”</p><p>“I’d say so,” John confirmed, and Sherlock was about to turn away and bark orders at Lestrade when John stretched his hand out, palm upwards. It took Sherlock a moment to realise that he wanted help getting to his feet. He obliged, brow furrowing as John placed his other hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and let it slide to the small of his back. Lestrade coughed and unsubtly raised an eyebrow, and it was the last straw for the detective. He grabbed John’s upper arm and pulled him away from the scene. </p><p>“What’s going on?” He demanded; his eyes flickering back and forth across the doctor’s face. </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“You barely asked any questions before we got here, which is unusual for you, you purposefully initiated physical contact in the cab and now you’re acting as if you’ve never been to a crime scene before. What’s wrong?” </p><p>“Nothing, I just—” John gave a little sigh, and his shoulders fell a couple of centimetres. “I’m trying to make an effort, that’s all. After what happened...” </p><p><em> Oh. </em>So John did still care about the restaurant.</p><p>“Well, you don’t need to. I’m fine, and it’s distracting.”</p><p>“Okay.” John nodded, and Sherlock let his hand fall from where it had still been clutching John’s arm. He was about to turn when John continued: “Even the praise?” The gentle smirk perched on John's lips told a thousand stories. So he had noticed, and Sherlock wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. </p><p>“That—“ Sherlock paused. He didn’t want John to stop <em> that </em>; he needed to explore his reactions more — analyse whether this was context-specific or whether any praise would elicit such a reaction. When he thought back, he’d had similar responses to John’s compliments in the earlier days of their friendship, but he’d waved it away as general attraction to the man himself. Perhaps he was wrong. But a crime scene was not the best place for that experiment. </p><p>“Later. You can tell me how brilliant I am when I have you alone.” He half growled into John’s ear, before walking back towards Lestrade and smirking at the shiver that ran down John’s spine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Broken Boundaries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW if you have emetophobia for this chapter. Nothing actually happens, there are just some descriptions towards the end</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>John: Present Day</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p>The rest of the day at the surgery is a nightmare. John keeps running the conversation with Mycroft round and round in his head. Each time he finds it harder and harder to stomach all of the things that Mycroft said. Even Sarah seems to be concerned about him as he wraps up with his last patient of the day and heads into the breakroom to try to collect himself before heading back to Baker Street. Mycroft’s parting lines haunt him, picking apart his arrangement with Sherlock as if it was hurtling towards a cliff without brakes. They’re not even together; there’s no emotional investment; they’re just letting off steam and making the best of a bad situation. Mycroft has no business getting involved in any part of their sexual decisions, even if his intentions are somehow shrouded in perceived nobility. Fuck Mycroft Holmes. John is not a drug, nor is he going to stop doing anything with Sherlock unless Sherlock or himself makes that call.</p>
<p>
  <em> I am not a drug.  </em>
</p>
<p>John repeats the sentence like a mantra all the way home. Mycroft was wrong. He’s not ashamed; Sherlock isn’t reaching into the fire; they are both grown adults who know themselves and can make informed decisions. </p>
<p>And yet, the thought won’t leave him alone. </p>
<p>
  <em> “You’re much worse. Cocaine never loved him back.” </em>
</p>
<p>It had been a simpler thing when Mycroft’s people had abducted him in broad daylight and dropped him off in a seedy warehouse. There had been a less personal ambience to it all; the lines in the sand much more straightforward. The fact that the elder Holmes had found the audacity to set up an appointment at John’s surgery with the direct purpose to tell John to leave Sherlock alone was bad enough, but it was made worse by the weighty realisation that as much as John tried to fight, Mycroft did indeed have valid points. </p>
<p>John goes back and forth about telling Sherlock about Mycroft’s visit. The pros and cons are fairly equal, but what pushes John to a decision is the knowledge that Sherlock will find out whether John’s tells him or not. He doesn't need lying by omission to be tacked onto the bevvy of other problems they are trying not to deal with. Unfortunately, Sherlock is a master of not being around when John needs him. Baker Street is empty when he arrives home, and if he had to guess, he’d say it had been empty all day. The hours feel like days as John waits for Sherlock to return, and John feels more like a pining pet than a proper romantic partner. </p>
<p>In the earlier years before Sherlock, or BS as John amusingly called it, he drank when he found himself overthinking everything. Back at University, his younger body could handle the distractions of pub crawls and very enthusiastic women. Now, neither held any more appeal than a nice night at home with Sherlock, watching crap telly and eating Chinese takeaway. </p>
<p>Jesus Christ, he is still so in love, and fuck Mycroft for putting a spotlight on it. </p>
<p>Eventually, Sherlock gets back with what looks like half the files of Scotland Yard. The giant boxes of paperwork from the Michael Pierce case quickly begin to overpower the living room, joining the rest of the boxes they had yet to return. Sherlock settles himself in the centre of them, his dressing gown draping across the floor as he pulls out file after file and mutters to himself. John stays out of the way and bides his time. He’s had enough rows with a severely concentrating Sherlock to know not to throw in a comment unrelated to whatever Sherlock is focused on.</p>
<p>By the next morning, however, when John wakes up to see Sherlock in practically the same spot John left him in the previous evening, he decides it’s better to get the conversation out of the way. </p>
<p>“Sherlock,” John starts, and Sherlock hums in response. The detective’s head is still bowed over what looks like Pierce’s mugshot. “Something happened yesterday that I think we should talk about.”</p>
<p>John takes a few steps over to his chair and sits down, waiting for Sherlock to look up at him. </p>
<p>“I wasn’t with you yesterday.” Sherlock’s brow furrows as if trying to remember what he could have done wrong. Something pulls at John’s stomach, and he swallows the comprehension. Sherlock has never outwardly spoken about his past; the little information John has about pre Baker Street Sherlock has mostly been through off-hand comments from Lestrade or grandiose threats from Mycroft. However, there are times when John can read Sherlock’s past in his behaviour. Immediate assumptions that he’s the problem, or placing John’s needs or pleasures before his own. And, as much as Sherlock can be an arse sometimes, it makes John sick to think of all the ways others must have used him.</p>
<p>“I know, you didn’t do anything. Something happened to me.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes roam over John, and John has to suppress a frustrated sigh. Whenever he’s busy or would much rather be doing anything else, Sherlock has a habit of deducing what John wants to talk about rather than waiting to be told. “You saw Mycroft? What did he want this time?” </p>
<p>Sherlock turns back to the files, placing the mugshot to one side and rifling through another box. What he’s looking for, John has no idea. He could have sworn that Sherlock had memorised all these months ago.</p>
<p>“Yeah. But this time, he came to my work. Booked an appointment just to see me.” </p>
<p>Sherlock freezes, tilting his head slightly and blinking far too fast. </p>
<p>“Why would he do that? Normally he whisks you away somewhere.” </p>
<p>“Well, this time was evidently different, and...he knows. About us.”  Sherlock frowns and turns back to the files. It feels partly like their break up all over again, and the sick feeling is returning to John’s stomach.  “Did you tell him?” </p>
<p>Sherlock eventually turns towards John’s direction once more, the paper in his hand beginning to sag. </p>
<p>“Why would I do that? You didn’t want anyone to know. As usual.” He says the last sentence under his breath, but still loud enough for John to hear. John ignores it. </p>
<p>“So how does he know?” </p>
<p>Sherlock huffs a mirthless laugh. “He’s Mycroft; he figures everything out eventually. Maybe he reinstalled the cameras in the hallway.”</p>
<p>“The what?” John exclaims, half rattled. Sherlock shrugs off the question. </p>
<p>“Anyway, what did he say?” </p>
<p>John takes a deep breath as Sherlock waits for an answer. The conversation he’d had with Mycroft has been on a loop in his head for the majority of his day, and yet now, all he wants to do is pretend none of it happened. Like it was an odd fever dream brought on by too many long hours between the surgery and this exhausting reopened case. </p>
<p>“He... he thinks it would be best for us not to date anymore,” John blurts out, his tone rather more defeated than he had wanted. </p>
<p>“But we’re not dating this time,” Sherlock quickly answers. “And even if we were, my brother feeds off the self-guilt and insecurities of others. He’s in the government for a reason, John. Whatever he said to you, don’t play into his mind games.”</p>
<p>So, of course, Sherlock provides a reasonable argument, and John searches for a counterpoint. Yes, Mycroft Holmes is as manipulative as anyone can get, but there is merit in what he said to John in that examination room. Merit John doesn’t want to admit. He swallows hard and leans forward. </p>
<p>“I’m aware of his ability to get into the heads of others. It just pisses me off when it’s done so flagrantly in my direction.”</p>
<p>“Evidently. The best way to irritate Mycroft is to ignore him. I’d suggest that we get onto more important things.”</p>
<p>“The drama queen gene is a hereditary trait, then?” John chides, ignoring the twist in his stomach as Sherlock brushes his worries off without care. He should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t put much weight behind his brother’s antics. He’d rather pour over old case files. “Why are you looking through all these again? I thought they’d be in your mind palace by now.” </p>
<p>“They are. Lestrade found a new body last night, I went to look at it whilst you were asleep.” <em> Oh. Sherlock had gone to a crime scene without him? </em> “Nothing new, like usual, so I wanted to comb through these again to check if I missed anything.”</p>
<p>Over the next few weeks, John tries to push the thoughts away; he really does. But now Mycroft has planted the idea, it begins to nestle deep in his mind. It grows and grows until he can’t ignore it anymore, which is probably why he sees it this time. The subtle changes in their reactions; a gradual fall into the Sherlock and John of the past. He notices, because he’s searching for it. </p>
<p>Sherlock stops updating John on his whereabouts, leaving John anxiously pacing 221b, hoping that the detective hasn't been knocked out and dumped in the Thames. He becomes single-minded, throwing himself back into the case with everything he has, even though there's no new information. Lestrade has to ban him from the yard, just to make sure he gets some sleep. John, on the other hand, finds himself getting defensive, over analysing every situation where he and Sherlock stand too close in public, become too comfortable with each other and at home, they fiercely make up for the loss of closeness. John starts caring what people think, constantly worrying if strangers will think they are together. He hates himself for it, but at the same time, he can't seem to stop. He closes up, retreating into himself for fear of anyone knowing what's really going through his head. </p>
<p>And the worst part? He’s aware of it all, but is powerless to stop it. Every so often, he even catches Sherlock staring at him when they eat breakfast or right after sex, deducing John as if his life depends on it. </p>
<p>Roughly three weeks after their brief talk about Mycroft, John decides to take as many extra hours as he can at the surgery. 221b Baker Street is suffocating him in more ways than he thought possible, and if he’s escaping, he might as well make some money while he’s at it. </p>
<p>Sherlock doesn’t seem put out by John’s new schedule, and if anything, John feels even worse. He hadn’t expected a sit-down conversation about it, but at least a question or two would have made all the difference. </p>
<p>
  <b>Pierce has agreed to meet with Graham regarding the new murders — SH</b>
</p>
<p>John sighs at the text message before sliding his phone into his pocket and getting back to his lunch. The continuous double shifts have him drinking black coffee like it’s water. At least Sherlock is keeping him up to date with the case, that means something, right?</p>
<p>The rest of the day is draining, filled with crying toddlers and overprotective mothers. He suspects his last case, an older gentleman suffering from acute migraines, is worse than he’d initially thought. He decides to fill out the referral paperwork for the neurology department when he gets home. He’s starving, but the forms need completing as soon as possible. The NHS is slow enough as it is without him adding to the delay. Still, he needs to eat something soon, or he’s going to crash. As he’s about to step out of the surgery, he texts Sherlock, asking him to sort dinner out. </p>
<p>To his annoyance, however, Sherlock is still absorbed in the case when John finally gets home. </p>
<p>“Did you get dinner?” John asks, peeling off his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. Sherlock barely looks up from where he’s typing away at the dining room table. </p>
<p>“Hm?” </p>
<p>“Did you even get my text?” </p>
<p>“I’ve been working.” </p>
<p>“Right.” </p>
<p>John opens the freezer and pulls out a half-open packet of fish fingers, and after some more rummaging, finds a lone potato from the back of the cupboard. He’ll go shopping tomorrow. Once the oven is on and the timer has been set, he goes to fetch his laptop, only to find it missing. It’s not in his room, nor in the usual spots in the living room. Did he leave it at the surgery?</p>
<p>“Sherlock, have you seen—” As he turns to face the detective, he finds it. Sherlock has been typing furiously away on it for the last ten minutes, whilst John ran around like a headless chicken trying to find it. Of course. “Why are you using my laptop?” </p>
<p>“Mine was in the bedroom.” </p>
<p>“It would take you literally a second to go and get it. I need mine.” </p>
<p>“I’m working, John,” Sherlock repeats, barely breaking concentration. John takes a deep breath and counts to ten. Now is not the time. He’ll just use Sherlock’s. </p>
<p>John wanders into Sherlock’s bedroom and quickly finds the machine under a stack of case files. He could swear they were reproducing by the day. Absentmindedly, he sits on the edge of the bed and types in what he hopes is the password. For all Sherlock’s whining that John can’t create a secure password, the man never changes his own. It takes John a few tries, but he successfully logs in. </p>
<p>He is not prepared for what he sees. </p>
<p>It takes him a moment to realise what he’s looking at. Excel is open, with a complicated spreadsheet of numbers displayed. He changes sheets and finds pages and pages of graphs and formula, all indecipherable. Was this about the case? He trawls through, trying to make sense of the data, and it’s only when he returns to the original sheet and reads the table headings that he understands. This is about him. </p>
<p>Sherlock has been collecting information about him and his reactions. More specifically, his sexual preferences. There’s a log sheet of each time they had sex, dating right back to that first time, pushed up against the kitchen table. Next to each one is a complicated rating system, measuring John’s physical reactions and comparing them to the time, location, and type of act performed. </p>
<p>A thick wave of nausea creeps over him, and John wants to close the program immediately, but he can't bring himself to look away. There's something disturbing and invasive, seeing their physical relationship mapped out like this, as if there was nothing more between them than pure sex.</p>
<p>"What the fuck?" John curses, which is immediately echoed by the sound of frantic movement from the other room, as Sherlock half crashes through the door. </p>
<p>“Don’t use—“ His eyes blow wide as he sees John already on the laptop, scrolling through the pages and pages of information. John can barely pull his eyes away to look at him. Was this all he was to Sherlock? Some experiment; a source of data for him to analyse? </p>
<p>“What the fuck is this?” John spits, turning back to the spreadsheet. He doesn’t want to see Sherlock’s face as he explains. If he does, he might punch it, and that wouldn’t help either of them. </p>
<p>“I can explain—” </p>
<p>"As if it's possible even to begin to explain this!"</p>
<p>Sherlock opens his mouth but is stopped short by John narrating the words on the screen. </p>
<p>“<em>Preferred time for fellatio, between six and ten am, provided John does not have work before noon. In the evenings, he is more responsive to anal play, but cross-reference this with the evening meal and stress levels.” </em>Sherlock’s face drains as John finishes reading the notes at the bottom of the page. “Is this all I am to you? Some experiment?”</p>
<p><em>Fuck. </em> He’d told Sherlock he loved him. John had said those words less than two bloody months ago; had looked this bastard in the eye and told him he <em> loved </em> him, and this is what happened? How could he love someone who saw him as a bunch of numbers on a graph? Christ, had he been working through these formulas the whole time? Creating a rigid structure, just to produce specific outcomes?</p>
<p>“No, that’s not true, I just—” </p>
<p>“Don’t...” John says bitterly, knowing he’s not letting Sherlock clarify anything. He knows he should hear what the man has to say for himself, but he doesn’t want to. Because, what if it’s worse? He doesn’t <em> want </em> to hear Sherlock rationalise this. To act as if this is no big deal when it really, <em> really </em> is. John thinks that might break him. </p>
<p>“It’s <em> needed, </em> John,” Sherlock continues, and there is a frantic look in Sherlock’s eyes that John has never seen before. “Data...variables...statistics are what helps me function through this.”</p>
<p>A surge of pain floods through John, the likes he hasn’t felt since being shot, and at once, Sherlock appears to register the hurt and instinctively steps forward. </p>
<p>“<em>Through </em>this,” John parrots, the white heat of his words burning his mouth and tongue as he says them. “Like I’m something to be endured...like a chore? Is that it?”</p>
<p>With a pang of guilt, John watches Sherlock’s face go from genuinely panicked to horrified. Good. He deserves to know what his fucking experiments do to the people around him. </p>
<p>“Please...John, let's just talk about this later when the Pierce case is a bit further along. We’ll have a proper talk and figure out—“</p>
<p>“Not interested in being manipulated by another Holmes, thank you,” John sneers back before striding towards the door. He needs to get out of punching range of Sherlock before he does something that he’ll regret later. </p>
<p>“Where are you going?” Sherlock commands, but there’s a meek quality blended in his tone that melts John’s resolve just a fraction.</p>
<p>“Out,” John replies, and he is suddenly struck by how right the decision is, even if his heart might actually be shattering. “For the night for now...and for good by the end of the week.”</p>
<p>Sherlock shows all the warning signs of a patient about to throw up right where they stand. His face is slightly green, and he is swaying slightly from side to side. John watches Sherlock grip onto the side of his office desk to steady himself. </p>
<p>“I can’t do this anymore,” John mutters. “Not any of it...not if I want to maintain any shred of dignity I have.” </p>
<p>He gulps the apology he wants to give, and his stomach lurches. He might be joining Sherlock in vomiting onto the bedroom floor.</p>
<p>“But you can’t…” Sherlock pleads, and any semblance of aloofness has now been completely stripped bare. “you said that you loved me…”</p>
<p>“I did,” John admits. “And even after finding out all of this...I still do. And <em> that’s </em> the problem. I can’t love someone who treats me like this. Goodbye, Sherlock.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Down and Dirty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <span class="u">Sherlock: Six months ago</span> </strong>
</p><p>There was one thing in life Sherlock deplored more than boring cases, and that was cold ones. The stink of failure hung like rotting fingertips left too long in the vegetable crisper, and that was unacceptable in every conceivable way. Lestrade had seemed to take the lack of new leads in stride, trying to encourage Sherlock to review some of the files over again for potential overlooked information. </p><p>Sherlock tried not to take the suggestion as an insult to his abilities, but it was hard to review the same facts repeatedly. It was as if his mind palace was reflecting mirrors in uncomfortable places, with each of the faces his own decorated with an expression of deep disappointment. </p><p>But now, finally, there was a lead. The soil on the base of Jacob Nelson’s shoe could tell them exactly where he had been initially buried. After three victims and no mistakes, the killer had slipped up and given Sherlock enough information to find him. All he had to do was trace the soil.</p><p>“Getting anywhere?”</p><p>Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see John hovering behind him with a fresh cup of tea.</p><p>“Nothing but superfluous data,” Sherlock grumbled as John placed the cup beside him on the examination table. “As if Lestrade requesting me to go over the same information is anything other than an exercise in insanity.” </p><p>“Says the man who takes bullwhips to corpses. You can hardly comment on the craziness of others,” John chuckled. “Lestrade just wants to make sure that all the bases are covered. Not all of us can be geniuses, yeah?” </p><p>Sherlock mouthed John’s last words with a roll of his eyes. </p><p>“Hey, I saw that…” John chuckled. “You should take a break, yeah? Before the tea goes cold.”</p><p>“It’ll match our best lead then,” Sherlock grunted back, but he still picked up the tea and took a few sips before looking back at the photos of the Jacob Nelson crime scene. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the photo John’s elbow was rested next to.</p><p>“John!” he exclaimed, and the other man jumped. “That’s it!”</p><p>“What?” John yelped as he pulled himself away from the table. </p><p>“There,” Sherlock said, pointing at the photo. “That dark spot on the corner. At first, I assumed it was some idiot’s thumb getting caught in the photo — most likely Anderson — but it’s not. It’s a shadow, and by the length and direction, the photo was taken in the morning.”</p><p>John gaped at him. “So what? I don’t get what — “</p><p>“It’s obvious, John,” Sherlock sighed, but he could feel himself smiling. “There were a total of three people at the crime scene that early in the morning. Lestrade, Anderson and that new officer, what’s his name...Johnson.” Sherlock pointed at Lestrade and Johnson in the photo, both of them checking out the scattered evidence. “Anderson took the photo, so who else was there? Who else would have a reason to be around a dead body but leave before more of us arrived?”</p><p>John’s eyes glistened with understanding. You mean — “</p><p>“The killer made an appearance,” Sherlock concluded. “And we arrived within five minutes of this photo being taken, the killer needed to be close enough to the crime scene to escape undetected.”</p><p>“He lived nearby,” John gasped. “Then that leads us to only a few dozen people who lived in the nearby area.”</p><p>“Easier than that. Observe the lines of the shadow — short hair with a stocky build, male. Leans to the side; he has a limp. Only one man covers all those criteria, the gentleman we interviewed along with a few other neighbours. Michael Pierce.”</p><p>“Shit. The yard met the guy?” </p><p>“Yup.” Sherlock said, popping the ‘p’. “We need more evidence before we can arrest him though. If I can trace the soil samples back, we can figure out if he had access to the original burial site.” </p><p>It took him another three hours, but Sherlock finally identified the source of the soil. </p><p>“Welsh clay tiles!” He exclaimed, banging his palm against the table and causing a half-asleep John to jerk awake and almost fall out of his chair. </p><p>“What?” John slurred, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. </p><p>“Welsh clay tiles, they’re not usually found in this area. Some of the older houses in London used the tiles on their roofs during the 1800s, but most have now been replaced with better materials. When the tiles came off the roof, they broke and left a residue in the soil. There are about five houses in the local area that used this type of tile, so we need to go through them to find where the body was buried. And look, guess who lives in one of them,” </p><p>“Our pal Michael Pierce?” John smirked, running a free hand through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock froze, just for a second, trying to decide whether he liked the sensation. It wasn’t unfamiliar to him, the gentle pull of John’s fingertips across his scalp, but here? He couldn’t decide how he felt about it. </p><p>“Of course. I think it’s time we pay him a visit, don’t you?” Sherlock reached out for his coat, draped over the lab bench, and stood, disentangling John’s fingers in the process. He pulled the coat on in one fail swoop and immediately pulled the collar up. They were close; he could feel it. </p><p>The game was back on.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The sun had already set by the time they made it to the garden. They kept to the hedgerows, staying out of sight of the house, despite there being no lights on in any of the windows. </p><p>“He could still be in there!” John had angrily whispered as he pulled Sherlock out of the house’s view line. He had a point, but Sherlock was beginning to get restless. He had to force himself to take a deep breath and calm down — rushing would only make the whole case collapse around them. </p><p>They crept along the edge of the house until they found the garden, protected on all sides by high fences: no peering neighbours, an ideal murder spot. John broke the side gate as quietly as possible, but they both cringed at how loud it sounded in the darkness. </p><p>Once inside the garden, there was nowhere to hide. In order to get a good look at the ground, they needed to come within sight of the back windows and pray that no one was home. A wide patio spread out from the base of the house, spreading about five metres in each direction. Sherlock took out a small vial from his pocket and collected a sample of soil from where the patio met the grass and took another from the far end of the garden, right at the base of the fence. He’d take it back to the lab and cross-reference it with their existing sample. That would give them a definite idea of if the body was ever here. </p><p>Sherlock scanned the ground, looking for disturbances in the soil. The body could only have been moved yesterday, and there was no evidence that it had been stored anywhere prior to the new site, so the newly disturbed soil should be evident. It was harder to see in the musky darkness, but there — in the far corner, shaded by a large oak tree, was a large patch of freshly turned soil. He took another sample, just to be sure. </p><p>“This is the place, John. The victim was definitely here. I just need to match the samples so Lestrade can come and —” Sherlock was interrupted by the outside floodlights turning on and illuminating the garden. He instinctively brought a hand up to his face, trying to protect his eyes, but it was no use. He was temporarily blinded and stumbled back a few steps, and by the time his eyes adjusted, he felt the familiar presence of a knife, pressed against his lower back. </p><p>“Don’t move.” the voice was deep and stern in his ear, and with a jolt of comprehension, Sherlock knew that John wasn’t near him anymore. He froze as the blade pressed in a little more, with the position and pressure of an obviously left-handed person. “And you, come out where I can see you.”</p><p>There was a rustle of sound to Sherlock’s right. John, peeling himself out of the hedgerow with his hands raised. </p><p>“Why are you both here?” the man asked. “And destroying my garden while you’re at it.”</p><p>“By the look of it, you were already doing a fine job of destroying your garden yourself,” Sherlock muttered, and John shot him an exasperated look. “However, you wasted your time trying to till the ground with new soil. It’s still obvious where the body was buried.” </p><p>Sherlock felt the man behind him tense, and the knife was pushed further into his back. </p><p>“What body?” </p><p>“Don’t play dumb with me, Michael. You know what I’m talking about.” </p><p>“Perhaps. But what are you going to do about it? You’re in no position to threaten me. One slip—” He pushed the knife a little harder, “—and you can’t walk out of here.” </p><p>“Very true, you could kill me right now. Except, then you’d have to deal with him, and he’s in the military.” Slight exaggeration, perhaps, but necessary. “Even if you manage to get past him, you’ll have some unfortunate questions to answer when Scotland Yard turns up. You didn’t think we’d come alone, did you?” </p><p>John’s eyes flickered to his, and a flash of understanding passed through them. If they couldn’t get out of here by force, they might as well bullshit their way out. </p><p>“Yeah, Detective Inspector Lestrade is on his way right now. Perhaps you can explain to him why you killed all those people?” John said. Sherlock couldn’t see Micheal’s face, but the disgust that ran through John’s made him curious. </p><p>“I killed those people because I wanted to. It’s that simple.” A talker. Most organised killers were, once cornered. They want to show off, flaunt their genius in front of everyone, proclaim how they evaded the law for so long. Besides killing, it’s the most fun you can have when looking down the barrel of a prison sentence. </p><p><em> “Distract him.” </em>Sherlock mouthed, and John gave an almost imperceivable nod. </p><p>“You strangled them. Why?” John asked. Pierce responded with a quiet chuckle. John continued on. “Strangulation requires effort; it’s difficult to do and requires you to be with the victim as they died. Why not stab them, or even use poison?” </p><p>“I think you’ve answered your own question. Why kill someone, if you’re not there to witness it? Takes all the fun out.” Pierce’s voice became crooning, as if talking about a beloved pet. Oh, here was a piece of work alright. Sherlock would have fun getting into his head. </p><p>Taking advantage of John's distraction, the detective slowly slid his right foot backwards until it settled between Pierce's. Sherlock darted his gaze from John’s face to his lowered right hand, then flashed three fingers. John's lips twitched.</p><p>“As if I have to tell either of you the mastery of what I do. All the planning involved..the waiting for just the right moment to strike.” </p><p><em> “Three, two, one,” </em>On the last number, Sherlock thrust his elbow backwards, throwing all his weight behind him. There was a sickening crack as his elbow connected with Pierce’s nose. It was probably broken, but he didn’t stop to check, instead he swept his foot along the ground and throwing Pierce off balance. The knife marginally pulled away from his back, and Sherlock took the opportunity to spin around and bring his knee upwards, smirking as it connected to soft flesh. John had closed the distance by now, pushing Michael down from behind, kicking the knife away and pinning his hands behind his back. </p><p>“Got you, you bastard,” John growled. Pierce squirmed for a second, but John held him steadfast, refusing to yield. “Are you okay?” John turned now to Sherlock, who was inspecting the back of his coat, checking for tears. </p><p>“I’m fine. I’ll call the Yard.”</p><p>“This isn’t over, you know,” Pierce called after him, his words muffled by the ground. </p><p>“I think you’ll find it is.” Sherlock retorted, sliding his mobile out of his pocket and dialling Lestrade.</p><p>“You’d be surprised.” </p><p>Sherlock just rolled his eyes and walked away. <em> Moron</em>.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until they fell into a cab that Sherlock let himself breathe. They’d done it. The yard had been called, Michael Pierce was in custody, and Sherlock had solved one of the longest running serial murders he’d ever seen. Or at least, the longest one he’d been directly involved with. </p><p>He had a mixed relationship with serial killers. Often, the case was solved not only by his deductions, but by the inevitable slip-ups. If he couldn’t solve the initial cases within a few days, it became a waiting game, one which he resented. So, when they finally placed the killer behind bars, there was not the same rush that came with solving an isolated case by himself. Still, it felt pretty damn good. </p><p>As soon as the cab door slammed behind them, John burst into fits of giggles, as he often did after a high stakes case. Nervous habit, one that Sherlock couldn’t help but echo. </p><p>“You did it. You bloody did it.” </p><p>“<em>We </em>did it.” Sherlock corrected.</p><p>“Yes, we did.” John’s grin was infectious, and it wasn’t long before they were in fits of giggles again, the leftover adrenaline finally leaving their system. “You were brilliant.” </p><p>“You always say that.”</p><p>“I always mean it.” They turned and caught each other's gaze, and it was impossible for Sherlock to look away, even if he’d wanted to. It felt like that first time, the buildings of London streaks of grey as John had said almost off-handedly that Sherlock was brilliant. <em> Brilliant. </em></p><p>The rest of the world melted away and left the two of them, suspended in time. He could almost read John’s thoughts like this, with his face soft and eyes wide open. There was admiration there, something that Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to. Most people looked at him like a circus freak, something to be amazed by, but only out of morbid curiosity. But John — John looked at him as if he were the eighth wonder of the world, not only something to be appreciated, but something to be adored. </p><p>Admiration. Lust. Devotion. And something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  It was all there, behind John’s eyes. Those deep blue, beautiful eyes. God, is this what he had become?</p><p>They gravitated towards each other on the seat, getting as close as the seatbelts would allow. </p><p>“Is it later yet?” John murmured, reaching one hand out to run his thumb along the ridge of Sherlock’s cheekbones. </p><p>“Sorry?” </p><p>“I faintly remember you saying I could tell you how brilliant you are later.” </p><p>Sherlock leaned into John’s touch and his eyes fluttered shut. There was a warming swirl of heat in his belly as John giggled again. </p><p>“I do recall...yes,” Sherlock whispered. </p><p>“You like it when I say what others are too blind to see,” John went on. “How bloody amazing you are. What that mind of yours is capable of dissecting with the merest of clues.”</p><p>Sherlock felt a heated curl of want creep within him, and he flicked his eyes to the back of the cab driver’s head before looking over to John once more. </p><p>“I…” Sherlock began, but his throat was too dry to continue. John placed his hand onto Sherlock’s closest thigh and kept it there.</p><p>“Is this too much?” John asked. “If you’d prefer I stop I —”</p><p>Sherlock laid his hand on top of John’s and gave it the quickest of squeezes. John’s look of concern turned into a much more mischievous expression.</p><p>“Your deductions are, without a doubt, what turns me one more than anything else,” John continued, and Sherlock appreciated that John kept his voice low so that only he could make out the words clearly. “The first time...after we met...after that <em> wink</em>...I thought about you in that shit of a bedsit. Fucking my fist..imagining it was your mouth instead.</p><p>John wet his lips and Sherlock watched. A sign of clear stimulation. </p><p>“I thought it was just a one-off,” John admitted. “The thrill of something unexpected, coupled with how striking you looked but no...I was captivated right from the beginning.”</p><p>Sherlock’s pulse rate was elevating and he knew that John would notice it soon. It was both the blessing and a curse of being sexually involved with a doctor. The intoxicating words were inching their way through Sherlock’s pores like slow-acting alcohol, and the buzz of it was all the things Sherlock never knew he needed until this moment. </p><p>“And you managed to find a serial killer with only a few grams of soil. That, that is beyond extraordinary.” John leaned forward to hover just over Sherlock’s ear, taking his time to let the words sink in and do their magic. “You’re a genius. There’s no one else who could have done that, only you.”</p><p>An embarrassingly loud moan slipped from Sherlock’s mouth, and he tried and failed to suppress the shiver of need that ran through him. John smirked into his ear, running his hand further up his thigh, pausing just shy of his crotch. Sherlock whimpered, begging John to close the distance, but his hand stayed there, teasing. </p><p>“You like that?” </p><p>Sherlock’s breath hitched, and why the bloody hell wasn’t this driver getting them home faster?</p><p>“No need to answer that,” John chuckled. “I picked up a bit of your deducing ability myself. Flushed cheeks. Heavy breathing. Pupil dilation and…” John shifted his index finger and thumb so that it wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist. “...elevated pulse. Oh, Sherlock. You’re gagging for it aren’t you?”</p><p>Sherlock stifled a moan that was luckily covered up by the driver’s quick turn onto Baker Street. John’s strong hold on Sherlock’s wrist loosened just enough for Sherlock to exhale a breath. His pants were straining against an erection created by John’s words, and Sherlock needed to relieve the pressure. </p><p>The car lurched to a stop outside of 221 Baker Street, and Sherlock practically flung money at the driver before pulling John out of the cab and dragging him up the stairs. John’s laughter rang out through the hallway while Sherlock got the front door opened and closed it beyond him with a snap. John was on him in a flash, his lips on Sherlock’s and unzipping Sherlock’s fly with his free hand. </p><p>Sherlock moaned loud and long as John stroked him off. An echo of their first time, pinned to the wall, and it was magnificent. All of it. </p><p>“You deserve to feel good,” John mumbled onto Sherlock’s open mouth. “You fucking extraordinary creature. Show me what your gorgeous body can do for me.”</p><p>Another kiss and Sherlock saw stars. The burst of his come coated John’s hand as he was stroked into a near oblivion of bliss. John held him up as his legs gave way and he began to slide down to the floor.</p><p>“Well then,” John giggled. “Praise kink officially confirmed.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Sobering Thoughts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>John: Present day</b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” Harry opens the door with sleep in her eyes, and John kicks himself. It’s the middle of the night; he should have gotten a hotel. Her curly blonde hair is wild, half pulled into a messy bun and half hanging loose around her face, and she’s wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and shorts. He definitely pulled her out of bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, it’s late; I just…” John pauses as the weight of his situation hits him. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can count the number of friends he has on one hand. The fact that his sister even made that list puts this whole situation into sharper focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock. Greg. Mike. Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg is too close. If John’s going to do this, he needs to remove himself from Sherlock’s life completely. He knows that if he stayed with Lestrade, had to watch him go to cases every day as if everything was normal, he’d break within the week. Mike — shit, he’s not seen Mike since the day he introduced him to Sherlock. They’ve texted a handful of times, brief catch-ups to ensure the other is alive, but nothing more. So Harry is all that’s left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that — that says a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, John. Come in.” She swings the door open wide, stifling a yawn as she takes one of his suitcases. John tries to wave her off and carry it himself, but she tells him to stop being stupid and pushes him through into the flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s small, with only one bedroom, the kitchen, and a small bathroom off the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The couch is worn in from what John assumes was Harry’s past party days, but it looks comfortable enough for him to sleep on for what will be at least a full 24 hours. The sound of his suitcase rolling along the wooden floor has him turn to see that his sister has placed it near the bathroom in the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want a drink?” she asks softly, and chuckles at the look on John’s face. “No...not like that. Don’t trust myself with anything stiffer than lemonade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The relief John feels helps him feel better about his choice to come here. Harry looks like sobriety has done her good. Her smile has a softness he hasn’t seen for years, and that mischievous twinkle in her eye is back in full force. Both traits make her seem younger, yet more grounded, and John feels his spirits lift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water is fine,” he sighs as he flops onto the couch. He begins rubbing at sore spots on the sides of his legs; he must have been walking around for much longer than he'd noticed. His phone vibrates again in his pocket — probably another text from Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within a minute, Harry pushes a glass of ice water into his hand and settles herself beside him. He's known her for way too long not to expect her to start asking questions, and she doesn't disappoint. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So...you up for a chat? Look like you’ve had quite a night already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a fair question, which throws him off just a bit. Sober Harry is something he needs to start getting used to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s…” he begins, but nothing else comes out. Everything he’s discovered today seems to finally be hitting him — the shock of what Sherlock had done now soaking into his pores like a slow-acting poison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is she then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John whips his head around to look at Harry, and she shrugs in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Johnny, I’m your sister. I survived your teenage years, I know when you’ve had your heart broken. So...who’s the bird I need to punch? I’ve still got a mean right hook I can lay when I need to. Better aim now that I’m not sauced up all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, and John can’t help but smile back. The feeling is a nice one for a change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Afraid there’s a problem in your assault and battery plans. The person is taller than you, has a family connection to the government and...isn’t female.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not the way John expected to out himself to his sister, but at this point, it really doesn’t matter anymore. He feels exhausted from all the hiding. It takes a few moments for Harry to unstick the startled expression on her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not...wait...are you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The small part of John that isn’t screaming internally wishes he was filming Harry’s reaction for later blackmail purposes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah…” he confirms, trying to save her from drowning in her stutters. “Guess I needed to prove that I could fuck up romance with both sexes, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry looks like she could really use a drink stronger than lemonade, and John would gladly join her in a second. Eventually, she sighs and places her arms around John. Her hug is much firmer than John remembers, but it’s wonderful just the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s that Sherlock bloke?” she asks once they separate again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods his head. Even hearing Sherlock’s name out loud is way too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You always were into the smart ones,” Harry says as she nudges John with her elbow. “And workaholics, too. Been dating since that first night, I bet. At...what’s the name of that place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angelo’s,” John says, and his chest feels way too tight again. “And no...a bit later, although I think that might as well have been our first date. Anyway, how do you know all this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do read the papers, you know. You’re somewhat of a minor celebrity these days, although I always dismissed the relationship rumours. Damn, my gaydar really needs some work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are silent for a while, with just the sounds of Harry’s ancient grandfather clock ticking on the far side of the room. John recalls with a pang that it was his wedding gift to Harry and Clara; the fact that Harry kept it after their divorce is yet another thing his mind has to process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still willing to punch him,” Harry says under her breath, and John snorts out a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raincheck?” John asks with a smirk, and Harry rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Do you want to tell me what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John knows  it would be best to get all of what occurred between Sherlock and himself out in the open. He’s been keeping everything so close to his chest that it feels like he is carrying a ticking bomb, set to explode with him as the only victim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow.” She stands and extends a hand. John takes it, slightly confused, until she pulls him up and begins unpacking the sofa bed. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll get this set up, then you get some sleep. Things seem better in the light.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Data...variables...statistics are what helps me function through this.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>John knows he should sleep, but that infernal spreadsheet has engraved itself behind his eyelids, and Sherlock’s last words echo in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You said that you loved me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he had. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And that — that hurts almost as much. That despite everything, despite them continually not working, despite being pushed away when more interesting cases arose and having his personal details fucking observed and graphed, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>loves Sherlock. If he didn’t, this would be easier. He could walk away and never come back, chalk this up to another relationship gone wrong. He wouldn’t care this much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he does. And it hurts. It hurts that the man he loves, the one he knows can be soft and kind; the one he knows inside and out, has seen layers that no one else has; is the same man that took his heart in his hands and crushed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he wants is to stop caring. But he can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From across the room, in his abandoned jacket, his phone vibrates and, against his better judgement, he checks it. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>John, please talk to me — SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I need you here — SH </b>
</p><p>
  <b>My mind is not functioning properly to deduce your location — SH </b>
</p><p>
  <b>At least tell me that you’re safe — SH </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Two missed calls from Sherlock Holmes [23:04]</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Please, John. I need to know you’re okay — SH </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>One missed call from Greg Lestrade [23:22] </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Hey, John. Sherlock called. I hope you’re okay, I’m here if you need me. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>John replies to Lestrade, letting him know he’s at Harry’s and asking him not to tell Sherlock. The rest of the texts he deletes. His thumb hovers over Sherlock’s name in the missed call section as he replays everything one more time. The miserable times swirl around with all beautiful moments, and his stomach twists in sympathy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders how long it will take Sherlock to find another interest that isn’t him. He will probably get more wrapped up with The Work than he already is. Sherlock will be fine without him, so it’s only rational that John will be fine without Sherlock. He just needs to take it one day after the next, like healing from his shoulder wound. The scars will be there, but he’ll be stronger for it in the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So with that, he presses the power key on the side of his mobile until it switches off, and places it on the coffee table. Then he closes his eyes and tries to sleep, hoping that he can  live in a world without Sherlock</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Copycat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six months earlier</b></span>
</p><p>The only consistency in 221b was the spreadsheet. Sherlock spent more and more time tending to it, as if it were a fickle houseplant in constant need of attention. It helped that John seemed to be, for the most part, happy with their sex life, and the inclusion of light BDSM now and then was a thrilling addition. Still, there was that occasional nagging in the back of Sherlock’s brain that he should be doing more for John. He made small adjustments here and there on the spreadsheet to make their romantic life as perfect as possible, but there were variables outside of his control. It didn’t help that Mrs Hudson had opened an old wound with one simple sentence. </p><p>“I don’t know how you can put up with him, John.” She’d huffed after walking in on a particularly gruesome eyeball experiment. It dredged up long-buried memories, ones that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not delete from his mind palace. The most recent of which echoed in his head; Lestrade’s offhand comment in the lab all those months ago.<em> Don’t know how you deal with him.</em> No matter what Sherlock did to silence the voice, it would renew at the most inconvenient times. </p><p>“Sherlock...you still with me?”</p><p>John’s worried face swam into focus, and Sherlock blinked a few times. He was lying on the sofa with his head on John’s lap. The sensation of John’s strong fingers tenderly massaged their way through his curls, and the television droned on in the background. </p><p>“Hmmm? What time is it?”</p><p>Sherlock felt John shift so that he could take a look at his watch. </p><p>“Quarter past ten. Though it looks like I’ve been chatting to myself for at least the past 15 minutes. Mind palace?”</p><p>“Yeah, mind palace,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly. </p><p>Most evenings went like that now. John chattering to himself, Sherlock retreating into his mind palace to rearrange data or analyse John’s every move. <em> John, how do you do it? How can you put up with him?  </em></p><p>John never defended him, and Sherlock didn’t expect him to. He was — a lot. He knew that. Throughout his life, he had been painfully aware of how <em> much </em>he was, how different everyone else seemed to be. But still, that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, each time John brushed the comment off as if it were nothing. As if he were some saint for dating Sherlock. For even occupying the same space. </p><p>He knew it was unfair to blame John for the comments of others. John was here because he wanted to be. But still, it hurt. </p><p>Weeks passed. Sherlock drifted in and out of his mind palace like a spectre, half here, half there. A couple of clients stopped by, but the cases were quick, over within a couple of hours. He felt alive for a second, the taunting echoes finally leaving him for a moment, but the second the case was finished they returned in full force. </p><p>If John noticed, he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to space out after cases, exhausted by the mental expenditure and the inevitable crap he put his body through, but this — this felt different. This wasn’t his body forcing him to slow down. It was his mind, and for once in a very long time, Sherlock was frightened. </p><p>The only thing that helped him feel like he was breathing again, other than the occasional level two case, was the spreadsheet and how it helped him stay connected with John. Every new entry and epiphany was a small victory, and Sherlock grabbed every one of them, chasing an afterglow that never lasted long enough. </p><p>“Think you should get any of those messages?” John inquired, nodding his head towards Sherlock’s mobile, which had received at least six alerts in as many minutes.   </p><p>Sherlock grunted as he finished typing out a new entry on the spreadsheet, documenting confirmation of John’s quirofilia. He still wanted to cross-reference it with indoor activities that would involve heavy use of Sherlock’s hands. Clay pottery, perhaps?</p><p>The phone chimed again, and John groaned in exasperation. </p><p>“That might be a case...what the bloody hell are you typing? God, nothing to do with fungus collection, right?”</p><p>Sherlock glanced over the top of his laptop to meet John’s uneasy expression. </p><p>“Lestrade is on holiday with Molly,” Sherlock answered. “It’s most likely Mycroft. I pulled down the camera he’d hidden in the hallway yesterday.”</p><p>John jumped at the information, then twisted his body around from his chair to glower at the hall. </p><p>“That fucking son of a— “</p><p>“Careful, John...I happen to be relatively fond of Mummy.”</p><p>John opened his mouth to retort, when Sherlock’s mobile rang this time. Sherlock snarled as he placed his laptop on the table beside him and grabbed at his phone. He frowned at the caller ID. </p><p>“It’s…” he began, then pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear. “Lestrade? I thought you and Molly were — “</p><p>“Thank god you finally answered,” Greg sighed, tone full of relief. “I’ve been texting you for the past hour. It’s urgent. There was a body found this afternoon, about ten miles out of London. It’s the same MO as Pierce, but...I need you and John to get here as soon as you can.”</p><p>“It’s probably an old body Lestrade, one we hadn’t found from before —”</p><p>“No, Sherlock, it’s...just get down here, alright?” </p><p>“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” </p><p>There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, and Sherlock could almost see Lestrade pinching the bridge of his nose. </p><p>“Alright, <em> fine </em>. The body was found this morning up at Parkland Walk. Forensics put the time of death around midnight last night. Sherlock, Pierce hasn’t left the station, but it’s exactly the same MO. The keys, the strangulation, everything. I’d say it’s a copycat, but, well, we haven’t released the details to the public yet. There’s nothing to copy from.” Lestrade’s voice was straining, teetering on the verge of panic. Sherlock hadn’t heard it many times before; Lestrade must have been under pressure from above. “Sherlock, we need you.” </p><p>Sherlock could hear Lestrade holding his breath, and the familiar background noise of the yard began to bleed through. The muffled beeping of the photocopier; shuffled feet along the carpeted floor. He must have been in the staffroom. We he grabbing another coffee?</p><p>“Sherlock?” </p><p>How? It was quite obvious Pierce must have had an accomplice; the man couldn’t be in two places at once, and it was true that the details hadn’t yet been released to the public. Not fully. Yet, there was another victim. Freshly rotting. </p><p>“Are you okay?” John spoke this time, reaching out and placing his hand on Sherlock’s arm. There was concern in his eyes, the kind that Sherlock wanted to wipe away, but he couldn’t seem to move. His limbs were frozen in place, pressing the sharp edges of his phone into his ear. </p><p>How did he miss it? An accomplice. He should have seen it, should have known. Some of the victims must have been killed by this unknown person, and he should have been able to identify the different marks. Different people had different sized hands, he should have known, should have seen— </p><p>“Hey, sit down.” John’s soft voice was nudging him out of the haze, and he was vaguely aware of the phone being pulled out of his hand. </p><p>“Lestrade?” </p><p>The sound of John’s apology  sounded far away and muffled. How could Sherlock have missed such an obvious thing as an accomplice? The previous crime scenes flashed across his mind as he tried to look for missing data. All of the evidence pointed only to Pierce, but if Lestrade was correct, then there was another killer out in the streets of London. </p><p>“I have the address,” John said quickly. “We can get there in twenty minutes if we get ready now.” A pause. “Okay, see you there, Greg.”</p><p>Silence. </p><p>“Sherlock? Are you okay?”</p><p>He was slipping. He was distracted — so much so that he’d missed a vital clue. How could he be so stupid?</p><p>“Talk to me.” John knelt in front of Sherlock, placing a hand on his knee, eyes searching his face. He looked so beautiful, crouched there. Lestrade had informed them that there was still a killer on the loose, one which was probably pissed off with them for bagging their partner, and yet all John cared about was Sherlock. It was infuriating. </p><p>“You couldn’t have known. It happens, sometimes. It’s not your fault.” John murmured. </p><p>
  <em> It’s not my fault. It’s yours.  </em>
</p><p>Sherlock pulled his knee away from John’s grasp. This. This was why he had been distracted. John was <em> there, </em>all the time, tearing his mind to pieces. </p><p>
  <em> Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.  </em>
</p><p>Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten that. It had been quite obvious to him before, when all the objects of his affection turned and pushed him away, but he hadn’t quite realised how dangerous it could be when reciprocated. John occupied the majority of his thoughts. Even on cases, his once focussed mind had been split in two, obsessed with analysing the man before him. </p><p>He needed to distance himself. Needed to pull his brain back to the task at hand; think only about the case until it was finished. </p><p>Sherlock stood, his face becoming a blank slate, boxing away all other thoughts. The case. He needed to focus on the case. </p><p>“I’m fine. Let's go.” He began to walk towards the door, grabbing his coat from the hook and pulling it on without hesitation. </p><p>“Are you sure—” </p><p>“I said, I’m fine.” The sentence came out more forceful than he’d intended, and John’s eyes narrowed. </p><p>“Okay then.” </p><p>He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective; high-functioning sociopath. </p><p>He didn’t need to care. At least, not while on a case, and John understood enough to deal with that. Especially if Sherlock made sure John was satisfied in other ways. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The crime scene, if anything, filled Sherlock’s mind with even more  doubt. It was shocking how almost identical everything was to the recent Pierce case. The only striking difference was that the key was placed in the right pocket instead of the left. Why make such a distinct change?</p><p>When they finally made their way back to Baker Street, after combing the scene within an inch of its life, John mentioned getting takeaway, and Sherlock nodded more out of habit than actual hunger. His mind was now focused on figuring out how Pierce had gotten away with murder while in police custody, or if it was true that he had an accomplice laughing at Sherlock’s idiocy. </p><p>“Greg said something about Pierce’s alibi leaving town recently,” John began. They both must have been sitting at the kitchen table for close to an hour without saying a word. Sherlock hummed to show that he was listening, even though he’d already considered and dismissed Pierce’s girlfriend as a possible lead. </p><p>“Ms Jones is too small in stature and weight to kill the victim. Especially by strangulation.”</p><p>John sighed in agreement. The scraping of cutlery against  plates echoed around the room as they both slowly ate. </p><p>“Care to watch something on telly? Take our minds off the case for a while?”</p><p>That was the last thing that Sherlock wanted to do. He needed to redouble his efforts to see what had gone so terribly wrong with his deductions, yet John was showing all of the signs of needing closeness. Perhaps physical contact would do both of them good, and after-dinner sex always allowed Sherlock a few hours by himself to think while John slept.</p><p>“Okay.” The sofa would be a great place to segue into something more physical, and at least this way, both of them would be happy. John would have the pleasure of release, and Sherlock would have a few hours to himself to retreat into his mind palace and find something he’d missed. </p><p>They dumped their dirty plates in the sink and made their way over to the sofa. John flipped through a few stations before settling on a football match, then yawned. Sherlock sat next to him, already strategising the best way to initiate sex. In general, John never took much to persuade him, but after dinner, a heavy-handed clue was usually required. Sherlock deduced that the sluggishness came with the meal. After waiting until an ad break, Sherlock slid closer to John. He rested his head on John's left shoulder, and John gave a small sigh that usually affirmed that Sherlock could continue. </p><p>With a small twist of his body, Sherlock moved so that his lips began to touch John’s neck and gave it a small kiss. John hummed a bit deeper. Good. </p><p>“What are you up to?” John chuckled as Sherlock shifted to place small kisses higher up, towards John’s ear. His hands grabbed at Sherlock’s hips and tightened as Sherlock continued his explorations. </p><p>“Not good?” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, the amusement clear in his tone, and John chuckled again. </p><p>“You know it’s good,” John answered. His face turned just enough to look deeply into Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s always good.”</p><p>They began to kiss, and a surge of heat flooded Sherlock’s body, and his racing mind slowed down. This would be fast, but he would make sure that it was indeed enjoyable. John moaned as Sherlock broke the kiss and managed a hand in between them. John’s erection was already digging into the side of his thigh, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle himself. </p><p>“Git,” John mumbled. “Can’t help what...happens when you kiss me, and you bloody well know it.”</p><p>Sherlock did, and with a small flick of his wrist, John moaned even louder. Sherlock was now entirely on top of John, and he watched how his nimble hands made John twitch and groan underneath him. It wouldn’t be long now.</p><p>“Hey...are you trying to beat some sort of record?” John gasped after a minute or two of Sherlock’s ministrations. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand with his own and stilled it. “We can take this into the bedroom, yeah? Take each other apart properly…”</p><p>Sherlock pressed another kiss onto John’s lips and began to stroke John once more. This time with the most tried and true techniques for bringing John to orgasm quickly. John relaxed in Sherlock’s arms and threw back his head as Sherlock continued to bring him to the brink. </p><p>“Sher…” John panted, his eyes closed and mouth open. “God...wait...I want you to come too.”</p><p>“No need,” Sherlock whispered quickly, his mind narrowed in on the task ahead. </p><p>John grunted and opened his eyes. There was that suspicious concern that Sherlock dreaded to see. </p><p>“What? Why no need?”</p><p>Sherlock frowned and leaned down for a kiss that John dodged. His expression became even more deeply wary.</p><p>“It’s nothing, John. I only desire you to orgasm tonight.”</p><p>He twisted his hand again, preparing to up the speed, but John caught him by the wrist. </p><p>“What does that mean? You don’t have to do anything you do want, you know that.” </p><p>“I know, John.”</p><p>John let go of his wrist and sat up straighter, his eyes softening as he moved closer.</p><p>“Then what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing, I just want to stay sharp, for the case—”</p><p>“Oh, bloody hell. Is that what this is? You’re trying to placate me so you can get on with the case?”</p><p>“No, that’s not—”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. I genuinely did just want to spend time with you tonight. You’ve been so locked in your head recently.” </p><p>John stood, tucking himself back into his trousers and walking down the hallway to the bathroom. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Sherlock called after him, even though it was obvious what was happening. He’d failed. Again. </p><p>“I’m having a shower and going to bed. Have fun with the case.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Internalised</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <span class="u">
    <b>John: Present day </b>
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</p><p>John spends far too much time staring at his plate before he finally prods the slimy substance with his fork. The noise it makes reminds him so much of a Sherlock experiment that he’s sure he’ll never have an appetite ever again. </p><p>“Come on…” Harry grumbles as she passes him two slices of what John thinks is probably toast, underneath all the burned bits. “It’s been ages since I’ve cooked eggs on the stove…at least I got most of the shells out.”</p><p>John raises an eyebrow at ‘<em> most of the shells’</em>, but if he made it through eating army rations, then Harry’s attempt at breakfast should be doable. The crunch between his teeth is a clear indication that some shells managed to survive Harry’s scrambling on the stovetop.</p><p>“You’re making all sorts of faces,” Harry mutters, before dropping a large mug of coffee next to the burnt toast. “Want me to chuck it in the bin?”</p><p>John nods so quickly Harry can’t help but laugh. It’s almost odd that John can meld so easily with Harry after all this time, as if the last years of turmoil have been simply wiped away. A part of John wants to pretend that the Harry he was angry at for so long was an alcoholic doppelgänger, and his actual sister has finally managed to escape from wherever she had been held captive. Maybe, in a small way, that’s exactly what happened. </p><p>“I heard your phone alerts last night,” Harry says quietly, her smile weakening a fraction. “I assume it was Sherlock?”</p><p>John nods again, and his stomach tightens at the memory of the text messages. The way Sherlock had said <em> please </em> , the politeness was unnerving and so vulnerable. How Sherlock had actually <em> called </em> him. There’s so much to read into those actions by themselves, let alone the subtext of it all. </p><p>“Did you text him back?”</p><p>“No,” John replies, and the weight of his decision feels tremendously heavy. “Didn’t want to say something I’ll regret later...or allow him to pull me back into...whatever the hell we were doing.”</p><p>John glances up from his breakfast to see an expression on Harry’s face that he is way too familiar with, and he sighs. </p><p>“You think I made a mistake by not talking to him, right?”</p><p>Harry takes a small sip of her coffee and places it back on the table. </p><p>“No, but...it’s not like you to leave things like this unfinished, Johnny. I mean, even if Sherlock’s the first man you’ve dated, it doesn’t change your empathy or your morals. If he’s trying to reach out then you should at least let him tell you what he wants to tell you.”</p><p>John stares at his sister. Maybe this is still the doppelgänger after all. </p><p>“When have you ever been one to give advice on talking about feelings?”</p><p>Harry gives a small laugh. “In rehab, forgiveness and making amends were crammed down our throats for a reason. I just wish I had this mindset when Clara was still trying to stop me  shoving my head up my own arse. ”</p><p>John watches as Harry fiddles with a loose string on her nightshirt as she talks, and his stomach gives a tiny clench. The last time he and Harry had spoken at any length ended in a screaming match regarding Clara. Harry’s loud rants about how John was a shit brother for taking Clara’s side in their painful divorce still hurt so much. Harry always knew how to hit with the most brutal of blows. </p><p>“It’s hard to get into any mindset nowadays,” John admits. “Especially when we can’t even be in the same room without shouting at each other.”</p><p>Harry gives a sympathetic pat on the arm that John is grateful for. His head is a mess; there are at least five different things he wants to say, and he can’t decide where to start. </p><p>“We are so right when we’re on the same page,” John mutters in frustration. “I can’t see myself going back to who I was before; I feel so alive when I’m with him. He helps me see that I am so much more than a broken soldier who somehow made it back from the war.”</p><p>“Then if you want to be together, be together,” Harry says, giving a fervent nod. “It’s plain to me that you adore him, so be with him.”</p><p>There's a directness in Harry's words that John can’t help but admire. The art of not giving a fuck, stylised in every part of Harry, from her smile to the clothing she wears. It's nice to see it on display without the blurriness of alcohol around the sharpened edges.</p><p>“You and Clara couldn’t stay together, and both of you were so much further along than Sherlock and I. You had history and—” </p><p>“Bollocks to history, and whatever the hell else you’re going to give as an excuse.” Harry downs the rest of her coffee, then places the empty mug on the table and turns to face him. “Look, Johnny...I couldn’t put the effort in. I was drowning myself in a bottle of vodka every night for God’s sake; I couldn’t even begin to repair our relationship until I’d taken a good look at myself. You can. If you want to keep him, you have to try. It won’t be easy, but if you really love him, you owe him that. Do the work.” </p><p>“I did the work. At least, I <em> thought </em> I did.” </p><p>“Thought you did my arse,” Harry snarks, and John throws back a confused look. “You’re a Watson, John. We’re not good with our feelings, but we definitely know when we’re in bloody love. And when we need to punch the hell out of someone too, but still. Anyway...you have to tell him exactly how you feel, all the time. It’s no use expecting everyone to understand where you’re coming from; you gotta tell them. And <em> you </em> need to listen.”</p><p>“But I have tried all of—“</p><p>“Then try again,” Harry interrupts, her hands now on her hips. “In different ways if you must. You go on and on about Sherlock being nothing but a walking computer...so maybe he really doesn’t see problems and solutions  in the same way as you? Maybe before you assume he’s not listening or not giving a shit about what you give a shit about, you check in? Ask questions before making assumptions.”</p><p>John stays still, stunned into silence. He’s not sure he agrees with all of what she’s saying, but it’s the first time someone has laid it out this way.</p><p>Harry leans forward and places a hand on his shoulder. “Look, if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. You can’t force a relationship, but you also can’t sit and complain about all the ways things went wrong, if you didn’t at least try and fix them. I was an arse to Clara. She tried, and I wouldn’t listen, and her leaving was, unfortunately, the best thing to happen to me. I needed to lose her to realise how far down the hole I had fallen. But John, not a day goes by where I don’t wish I hadn’t fought harder for her. Don’t be me.” </p><p>“I don’t know if I can do it, Harry. You don’t know half of what happened between us.”</p><p>“Then tell me. Make me understand.”</p><p>He starts at the beginning, in that lab at Barts, and works his way through all the cases. All the breathless runs across London, how he left his cane and the war in the booth of an Italian restaurant. How he was kidnapped by a madman and all he could think about was making sure his detective was safe. How, without realising, he fell in love with a genius that didn’t know the earth went around the sun. </p><p>He almost leaves it there. Misses out the endless fights and emotional distance. But he doesn’t. He tells Harry about the spreadsheet and the thousand other reasons he needed to leave, and when he’s done, it feels as if a weight has been lifted from his chest. There’s a hook in his throat that he keeps swallowing down, trying to keep the tears at bay, but <em> finally, </em>he can breathe. </p><p>“Has he ever done that before?” She asks, her eyes once again full of a bright curiosity that reminds John of a much younger Harry. </p><p>“Done what before?”</p><p>“Made a spreadsheet. No, not regarding sex or anything of that nature. Just in general.”</p><p>John feels bowled over by the question. He thinks for a moment, very conscious of Harry watching him as he runs through all the times he witnessed Sherlock filing data within his mind palace and in the outside world. </p><p>“Yes,” John answers finally. “During cases, I guess? Though nothing as disturbingly detailed as what I stumbled across.”</p><p>“Then...and just bear with me a moment,” Harry replies. “Let’s take the understandable shock of the spreadsheet away...if the topic was anything else, what would you deem from it?”</p><p>John frowns at Harry, but does what she requests. He tries to pull out any emotional connection to the spreadsheet. Pluck away every bit of sentimentality he possibly can. </p><p>He can’t. His brain gets stuck each time he tries to deconstruct the problem, tripping over those graphs, now burned into his brain. </p><p>“I don’t know, Harry. Stop trying to be his advocate. I don’t need that right now, I need someone on my side. I can’t love someone who won’t love me back. I can’t let myself become consumed by him again, only to have him drop me whenever a more interesting case comes up. I need more than to be something to occupy his time. I need to be respected and valued. What happened with him and me...it’s not what relationships are built on...no matter how much devotion I bring to the table.”</p><p>When he finishes, panting from the effort, she wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against her. The coconut scent of her shampoo fills his nose, and he’s glad he came. She might infuriate him sometimes, but she’s still his sister. </p><p>“I’m sorry. I am on your side, I just want you to be happy. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot with him,” she says. “But see? Talking helps.”</p><p>John gives a soft chuckle. “Fine, you were right. You win.” </p><p>“Damn right, I did.”</p><p>“When did you get so wise? Last I remember, you wouldn’t be caught dead giving advice. Especially about romance.”</p><p>“Sobriety does a lot to unpickle your brain cells,” Harry replies with a quick wink. “You should see me on Trivia Night.” </p><p>They pull apart, and Harry takes his plate and scrapes the squishy mess into the bin. </p><p>“I’ll buy some cereal tomorrow. Can’t mess that up.” </p><p>“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” John grins and ducks as a tea towel is thrown at his head. </p><p>“Right, I’m off to the surgery, then I’ll get more of my stuff off Molly on the way home. I’ll see you later.” </p><p>“See you in a bit. And Johnny?” John pauses, one hand on the doorframe. “Talk to him.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“We have to stop meeting like this.” The familiar voice calls out behind John, startling him from his daydream. </p><p>“Leah,” He says, and she greets him with a quick kiss on the cheek before reaching into her scrub pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. They are standing at the back of St Barts, sheltered by a small glass canopy jutting out from the side of the building. It always amuses John when hospitals have smoking shelters. So you can smoke yourself to death whilst trying to heal. </p><p>“Shh, don’t tell anyone. I’m supposed to be quitting. You can’t be a surgeon and smoke.” </p><p>“Mums the word.” He taps his nose and leans back against the wall, the coldness of the bricks seeping through his jacket. They stay in silence for a few minutes, small clouds of smoke billowing in front of them. The scent of tobacco feels familiar, but he shoves that thought down quickly before he has a chance to dwell on it. Not here. Not now. </p><p>“So, you took the job then?” He asks, trying to distract himself. </p><p>“Yeah, it was a good fit. It’s nice to be back in London.” She takes another drag. “Do you have another one of your cases? Are you waiting for Sherlock?”</p><p>“Oh, no. I’m, uh — we’re not together anymore. My friend, Molly Hooper, works here. She was picking up some of my things for me. I’m just waiting for her.” </p><p>“And you’re hiding back here because...?”</p><p>John sighs, digging his hands further into his pockets and adjusting his back against the wall. “Because I don’t know if Sherlock is here.” </p><p>“Ah, I see. Classic dodge. Did it with my ex-husband all the time. Made the mistake of working in the same hospital, even after we separated.” She shakes her head with a disdain John relates to far too well, before she conspiratorially whispers, “Well, if I see him, I never saw you.” </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>She flicks the stub of her cigarette on the floor and crushes it with her foot. </p><p>“Look...this is probably sudden, but...do you want to go for a drink?. That is, as long as women are still an interest?” </p><p>There’s a mischievous glint in her eye that, less than a year ago, John would have jumped on without question. He likes flirting; he’s good at it. The push and pull of two people, finding all the right buttons to press, not knowing if the other person is really into you until they’re slipping you their phone number on a napkin and inviting you up to their hotel room. There’s a thrill there that he’s missed. Before, there would have been no question; no hesitation, but now... </p><p>It feels wrong, for the person across from him to not be Sherlock. They had fallen into a routine; had gotten to know exactly which buttons did what. There was an extra level there that casual relationships never unlocked, but still, he had missed this — the excitement of meeting someone new.</p><p>“I’m bisexual, Leah...not gay,” John says, and he’s surprised how calm he feels, saying that out loud. It feels liberating, something he can definitely get used to saying. </p><p>Perhaps this is the best way to move away from Sherlock. Not date, exactly, but move in a general direction of normalcy. Have fun; be in an existence where fingers and toes are not left in the refrigerator next to Indian takeaway. Something casual. John flashes her his coy half-smile, the one he’d practised in the mirror as a teenager. “And I’d love to go for a drink. There’s a bar down the street that does great cocktails, I can take you there?” </p><p>“Great, you can pick me up from outside.” She winks and slips out the door, leaving him standing outside, alone. Once she’s gone, John can sense that same uneasiness he felt before he had talked to Harry. He still plans on talking with Sherlock soon, but he needs a nice time with someone different. Just to clear his head and try to have a bit of fun. So why can’t that be Leah? She’s smart, funny, and open-minded. He has no reason to feel guilty.</p><p>None at all. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>It takes far too long for John to get dressed for the date. Is this a date? He keeps running through the conversation with Leah, again and again, to make sure. The words said and the looks given definitely lean towards this being a date, but John finds himself hesitating at every turn, the confidence from a few hours ago lost somewhere in between the clinic and Harry’s tiny bathroom. Eventually, he decides on dark blue jeans and a button-up shirt. Casual, but still smart, and the dark green shirt looks good on him. Even Sherlock had mentioned so, and why the hell is he thinking about Sherlock right now? </p><p>He turns on the bathroom sink and cups his hands to collect enough water to splash onto his face. Maybe the quick chill will help dislodge Sherlock out of his brain long enough to focus on Leah. It works for the moment, and within the next few minutes, he’s heading out the door with his mobile in hand, texting Harry to say that he’ll be back later than he first thought. </p><p>The taxi ride back to St Barts is quiet, and John finds his thoughts floating back to Sherlock. It’s been over 24 hours since Sherlock’s last text, and John wonders if that should bother him or not. Perhaps Sherlock is biding his time, or more likely, he’s already begun the process of deleting John’s existence from his mind palace, one section at a time. John’s stomach twists at the idea of being wiped like a virus in an otherwise functional hard drive. </p><p>“Hey there,” Leah says happily as she opens the back door and slides into the cab. Her styled hair and makeup make her appear slightly younger than when she is in her hospital scrubs, and to John’s slight relief, even more approachable. </p><p>“Hi,” John replies, returning her smile. “You look great.”</p><p>Leah's smile widens at the compliment. “You too. Nice to get out and just relax. I love my job, but it doesn’t leave much free time.”</p><p>“Oh, I understand completely. Sometimes we have cases that will last for days on end, without a break.” He pauses, realising his mistake too late. “Had. We had cases.” </p><p>Leah gives him a warm smile and pushes the conversation forwards, chatting about the patients she’d had that week and how she’s convinced her new boss already hates her. John nods and laughs at all the correct points, but his mind is still stuck on his mistake.</p><p>Before now, he hadn’t fully appreciated how much his life had changed. No Sherlock meant no cases. And sure, that meant he’d finally get some sleep, and perhaps he could hold a full-time job, but no cases meant no running across London in the dead of night, no all-nighters at the yard. </p><p>He’d miss that. </p><p>John hadn’t realised how much of his life was intertwined with the detective, and, for the first time, he wonders if that was part of the problem. He was with Sherlock twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They worked together, lived together, slept together and everything in between. The most time John ever had to himself was the occasional drink with Greg, or the rare occasions Sherlock passed out before him. </p><p>“John?” A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the present. “You okay? I lost you there.” </p><p>“Yeah, sorry. I, uh, just realised that I lost my job too. When I left Sherlock — sorry, I shouldn’t be saying all of this on a date with someone else.” </p><p>She chuckles, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes him realise that she doesn’t mind. </p><p>They pull up outside the bar, and John pays the driver before following Leah inside. She picks a table in the corner, secluded from the rest of the room. </p><p>John slides over to sit beside Leah and gives his order to the server. He attempts to start a conversation about Leah's settling into her new position, but it quickly goes nowhere. It’s stupid that John is acting this way. Leah is incredibly smart and pretty, yet there is nothing there for John to connect with past general pleasantries. </p><p>His mind keeps wandering to Baker street, wondering what Sherlock is up to without him. Has he solved the case yet? Perhaps without John’s distraction, the detective could have solved the case and moved onto the next one by now. He hopes Lestrade will update him when they finally catch the guy, but John realises that the DI would have no reason to. John’s not on the case anymore, he’s not even a detective, so he has no rights over information pertaining to an open case. </p><p>John ghosts his way through a couple of drinks, asking just enough questions to keep the conversation going, being evasive enough to avoid answering anything too personal, and laughing in all the right spaces. All the while, his thoughts are occupied by a certain consulting detective. </p><p>They take it in turns to buy the rounds, and it’s not long until they’re back in a cab, heading to Leah’s flat. She invites him in, and it’s clear from the tone of her voice that this was her plan all along. John breathes out an unexpected sigh of relief.</p><p>She wastes no time pouring them a glass of wine and settling onto the sofa. Each sentence becomes more flirtatious than the last, and John realises she wants him to make the first move. Never one to disappoint, he reaches forward, delicately placing a hand on her cheek, allowing his eyes to flicker down to her lips before closing the gap. She is soft beneath him, her mouth much smaller than he’s used to. It takes him a moment to adjust, but before long, she’s moaning against his mouth, her tongue pressing against his. A hand works its way up his neck, and for a split second, he is reminded of his last night with Sherlock; one calloused hand running through his hair, another traveling south…</p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>He tries to push the thoughts from his head, but it's too late. Those lips on his become Sherlock’s, the hand on his neck grows rougher and larger, and the faint scent of Sherlock’s poncy shampoo fills his nose. </p><p>“John,” That deep baritone echoes in his head, and John almost moans at the sound. Quickly, he pulls away, and reality comes crashing back down around him. Leah sits in front of him, disappointment pooling in her eyes, her cheeks still pink from the kiss. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” John takes a gulp of air, letting his hands fall back to his sides. Immediately, they begin to form fists, clenching and unclenching to release the adrenaline. “Leah, you’re a wonderful woman, but I—” He stops mid-sentence. What’s he supposed to say?</p><p>“It’s okay, John. I mean, I wish you’d realised you aren’t over Sherlock before tonight, but I get it. You don’t need to feel bad.” </p><p>“How…?” </p><p>“John, he’s the only thing you’ve talked about all evening. I’m not looking for anything serious, so I let it slide, but it’s obvious you’re still hung up on him. I thought maybe you wanted some fun, something to take your mind off everything, but it’s okay that you don’t.” She reaches forward and gives him one last kiss, chaste and quick. “It takes time. Don’t rush yourself.” </p><p>She’s right, and John wants to spend the next few hours in continuous apologies because of the amount of Leah’s time he has wasted in such a lacklustre pursuit. As if she can read his thoughts, she places a hand on the small of his back and gives him a gentle rub. </p><p>“Whatever you and Sherlock had was special,” she continues. “And regardless of what comes next, you should close that door before you open a new one. I’m sad that the new door doesn’t have me on the other side, but I’m happy to stay friends, ok?”</p><p>John nods, and Leah gives him a quick hug before walking him out of her flat. The smell of her perfume still lingers on his collar as the taxi takes him back to Harry’s home, but all John can think of is Sherlock, and what the hell he is supposed to do to close that door that Leah spoke about. Or if he even wants to. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Harry is long asleep by the time John gets home. The flat is pitch black, and he barely makes it to the sofa without tripping. He’d spent the entire tube ride back berating himself for letting Leah down. He should never have agreed to go on that date. He wasn’t ready. </p><p>John lets out a sigh, toeing off his shoes and settling onto his back. The ceiling stretches in front of him, and his eyes trace the cracks in the paint, desperately trying to gather himself. What did he want? Harry seemed convinced that it all came down to John working harder at listening, and things would just fall into place. As if all of their collected baggage could be fixed with communication, and while it’s true that both of them are shit at talking about anything deeply, it’s not that simple. Sherlock’s definitely not that simple. He’s an enigma draped in fine tailoring and snarky retorts. He’s so infuriating that John spends most days shouting himself to the point of hoarseness at just being his flatmate, let alone his lover.  </p><p>Yet, here he is, still recalling so many wondrous memories of laughter and levity. His fingers twitch at the recollection of how bloody soft Sherlock’s curls feel, no matter what time of the day that John runs his hand through them. How irresistible John’s name sounds in Sherlock’s deep baritone, and how John yearns to not know what each day will bring because he’s hitched his heart onto the whims of a madman. </p><p>John groans into his hand. He can’t think like this. Sherlock made his stance pretty clear, and John needs to find a way to move on. </p><p>Except, did he? Harry didn’t think so, and she’d never met the man. He’s missing something, but he can’t put his finger on it. </p><p>
  <em> “If the topic of the spreadsheet was anything else, what would you deem from it?” </em>
</p><p>What would he think? If he opened that laptop to find anything else; a spreadsheet of the case, or even of the mould samples in the fridge, what would he think? </p><p>That Sherlock was arranging clues. Putting all the relevant information in a detailed form to create a visual aid to solve the puzzle. Sherlock valued puzzles above everything else. He thrived from solving them, and the fact that John had never seen a datasheet so intricate before meant…</p><p>Sherlock valued him. He wanted to do everything he could to make them work.  </p><p>John was so stupid. Sherlock was the kid that pulled things apart just to figure out how they went together again. He’d never been a natural with social skills, that much he admitted, and he worked by analysing behaviour patterns and matching them with meanings. Of course, when faced with someone like John, someone that he cared about, he’d want to discover everything about them. </p><p>All Sherlock had wanted was to understand John, and he’d… </p><p>Fuck. John had shoved him away for being himself. He’d been so worried about himself, so wrapped up in Mycroft’s accusations that he’d been waiting for something to happen. And when it did, the moment Sherlock deviated from the social norm, he’d allowed his insecurities to explode. </p><p>Christ. Looking back, he sees it now. All the times he’d let his insecurities eat into their relationship; all the moments he’d pushed Sherlock into a box, expecting him to know what John wanted without asking. Sherlock wasn’t innocent, he still had his fair share of failings, but perhaps this wasn’t as one-sided as John had thought. Maybe...maybe Harry was right. </p><p>John shivers. That in itself is horrifying; that his wreck of a sister has become the sane one. She’s never met Sherlock, yet she knew exactly what had happened just through John’s stories. Is he that obvious?</p><p>His eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, the room turning blue-grey around him. What now? Had they already been irreparably broken, too far gone to ever try again, or was there some hope? Could Harry be right; if they sat down and talked, could they make something of this mess they’ve found themselves in?</p><p>John doesn’t know. Going back now almost feels like regressing. Who’s to say they wouldn’t fall back into the habits of before? Knowing what’s wrong and being able to repair it are two different things. It’s been almost a year since that first kiss; surely enough time had passed that things would have worked themselves out if they were meant to. And yet…</p><p>All he can feel when he closes his eyes are Sherlock’s arms, winding around him. His skin longs for the contact, not the deep passions of the last few months, but the gentle touch of a lover, a physical promise never to leave. He could walk away now, shut the door on Sherlock Holmes and try to move on, but John knows, deep down, that he will never cease to want him. The detective will haunt him for the rest of his life. </p><p>John begins to drift to sleep, still mulling the thoughts over. He has to decide: with Sherlock, or without? Either way, Harry’s words have never rung truer. He’s a Watson. It may take them a long time, and they may struggle to verbalise it, but when they fall, they fall hard. </p><p>And no one has fallen harder than John. But if he and Sherlock really tried, cut through the bullshit and started being honest with each other, perhaps they could fall together. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Emergency contact</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Sherlock: Six Months Earlier</b></span>
</p><p>“Where’s John?”</p><p>Sherlock felt himself bristle at the question but pretended not to hear it. The last thing he wanted to think about was John; Sherlock had snuck out of the flat just to avoid him for as long as possible. </p><p>His gaze stayed steady on the gravel on the otherwise immaculate dark blue carpeting. His slender magnifying glass shook slightly as Lestrade took another step closer and bent over next to him. Sherlock already knew that the DI was glaring at him for not answering, but Sherlock barely cared.</p><p>“Sherlock…” Lestrade said, irritation clear in his tone. “Ignoring me does nothing but make me talk louder.”</p><p>With a grumble, Sherlock snapped the magnifying glass shut and looked up to meet the steely gaze of Lestrade. He was strongly reminded of how fatherly the DI could be when the moment called for it. </p><p>“Not here,” Sherlock replied. “Obviously.”</p><p>Sherlock predicted Lestrade’s eye roll before it happened, although the sigh of frustration before the DI rose to his feet was a surprise. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant one, since Lestrade moved away enough for Sherlock to continue his work in relative peace. A small victory, but a victory all the same. </p><p>Pierce had been very little help in regards to the new rash of copycat murders. When questioned, he maintained a stubborn silence after requesting to speak to his lawyer. Lestrade had realised Pierce would be no help to them and quickly demanded him to be taken back to his cell. Sherlock hadn’t even had the chance to interrogate the man himself, much to his annoyance. </p><p>They were back to square one. Pierce either had no idea who the copycat killer was, or he was unwilling to tell them. There was nothing else Sherlock could do, except pour over the existing case files, hoping he’d missed something. </p><p>Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, ignoring Lestrade’s exasperated glare. </p><p>
  <b>John: Hey, where are you? We should talk. </b>
</p><p>He typed a quick reply, <b>I’m out, talk later. SH</b>, before turning back to the gravel. </p><p>“This is just gravel from the driveway. There’s nothing here, Lestrade. Nothing we haven’t already found.”</p><p>“I just thought we might have missed something.” </p><p>“Of course I’ve missed something—” Sherlock yelled, taking a deep breath as the DI straightened his spine and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ve missed something, but I don’t think it’s here. I’m going back to Baker Street. Call me if you find anything.” </p><p>Before Lestrade could reply, Sherlock strode out of the house. Anderson shot him a sour look as he passed, and Sherlock redoubled his pace to get out of there even faster. It was bad enough not being any closer to solving this case, he didn’t need the likes of Anderson making sarcastic comments.</p><p>Dead end after dead end. Each passing minute made the trail grow colder. The Yard was useless at getting more information out of Pierce, and John’s texts became  pushier and more argumentative throughout the next hour. Just to avoid having to deal with any more awkwardness, Sherlock changed his mind about heading to Baker Street. Instead, he found himself on a very familiar cab ride to the darker side of the city. He needed to clear his mind, and cocaine always found the best way to do just that. Even merely having some in his possession might do the trick, and there were hiding spots at 221B John hadn’t discovered yet. Even with the help of Mrs Hudson. </p><p>
  <b>John: I went to Pierce’s place. Greg said that you left over an hour ago. </b>
</p><p>So it appeared Sherlock had made a good move by leaving Lestrade. John was annoyingly stubborn when it came to conversations at times. Especially when it involved the complexity of emotions, mixed in with the simplicity of sex. There had been a few more awkward encounters since that first night, Sherlock trying, and failing, to keep John pleased whilst his own mind was occupied with the case. Eventually, John had pushed him away completely, and the only communication they’d had since were half-aborted arguments about John’s emotional state.</p><p>
  <b>Be home later. SH</b>
</p><p>He pocketed his mobile as the man on the corner gave him yet another once over. If anything, Sherlock should be the one concerned. It had been a few years since he had been in this exact situation, and back then he’d already been high as a kite during the transaction. </p><p>“Who ya textin’?”</p><p>“None of your concern. I’ll give you extra to not ask any more questions.”</p><p>That was plenty to shut the man up, and the exchange quickly finished. Then, with a sharp turn, Sherlock headed in the opposite direction, already rethinking the wiseness of this plan. <em> He was better than this. </em> He had solved crimes for years without the aid of chemical diversion, but there was a factor that hadn’t been present back then. <em> John. </em> It was John that made every decision so different now. </p><p>With timing that was irritatingly precise, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed with an incoming call. Sherlock glanced at it, before sending it straight to voicemail.</p><p>John. He was always <em> there</em>, hovering on the periphery, and, as much as Sherlock had enjoyed it in the beginning, the change in their relationship had made his presence distracting. Every second of every day, there was a part of his brain that was constantly thinking about John, cataloguing his every position, trying to decipher his every thought. It was infuriating, and Sherlock couldn’t work out how to turn it off. He was sure that the reason he’d missed something, the reason there was still a killer on the loose, was because his mind was being pulled in two directions. It had never been like this before. This entire case had taken months, all because Sherlock couldn’t order his thoughts for long enough to focus. </p><p>There was an answer. There was always an answer about how to quiet his mind, and it was currently clutched in his hand, hidden within the depths of his pocket. Just one hit. One dose, carefully controlled, then he could solve the case and go back to John. Because as much as the man frustrated him, as much as he wanted to pry John Watson out of his mind, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. John had become a part of him, as integral as the cases and deductions, something he couldn’t live without. So, if he couldn’t focus with him, but couldn’t live without, then this was the only way. </p><p>Another call — John was being persistent today. Sherlock declined it without hesitation before holding the home button and powering down his phone. No more distractions. He could do this. Just one hit, solve the case, then he’d walk away. No falling down the pit, no chasing highs until he couldn’t breathe, just one, solitary fix. For the case. </p><p>He slipped into a concealed alleyway, stretching his neck to check none of the nearby houses overlooked the street. The area was eerily quiet for the middle part of the day, but that was in Sherlock's favour. After another quick look, he opened up the small bag and examined the cocaine. Even years later, he could tell that it was reasonably good quality, and though he’d rather have a sterilised needle, he’d have to settle for inhalation. Never his preferred method, but desperate times called for desperate measures. </p><p>The bag opened with a small crinkle that had Sherlock checking his surroundings yet again. This was ridiculous; he’d never been this twitchy before. Yet, this time it was more than the odd nature of being incredibly sober in the daylight, trying to score a fast hit in a dirty alley. It was the sound of John’s voice echoing in the halls of his mind palace, asking him what the hell he was thinking. </p><p>“I need this, John,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, closing his eyes and leaning back into the wall behind him. “I need to think.” </p><p>
  <em> Then think.  </em>
</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>
  <em> You don’t need the drugs. You never needed them; you’re just running away because you’re scared. </em>
</p><p>“Of course I’m scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t get you out of my head.” </p><p>
  <em> Oh, Sherlock. This is normal. This is how it’s supposed to be.  </em>
</p><p>“It was never like this before. You’ve changed me.”</p><p>
  <em> For the better or worse? </em>
</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.’</p><p>
  <em> Yes, you do. Think. </em>
</p><p>“Stop telling me that. I’m trying. A thousand thoughts are running through my head and I don’t know which of them are real, and I can’t hold onto them long enough to deduce anything. It’s you, you’re standing in the middle of them all, and if you would just move —”</p><p>
  <em> You already know the answer. You know why you feel like this; you just can’t admit it. Think. The drugs aren’t going to help. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes sprang open, and he pushed himself away from the wall. John was right. A hit wasn’t going to fix him. It might help him solve the case, but what about the next one? He couldn’t stay constantly high again. John wouldn’t allow it, nor Mycroft and Lestrade, and as much as he hated to admit it, his body couldn’t cope. Not again. </p><p>He needed...a cigarette. That would have to do. A cigarette, a quiet room, and time. He’d sit in his mind palace all night if he had to, working through each thought, one at a time. The answer, both to his distraction and the case, was in there somewhere. And he was going to find it. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Where have you been?”</p><p>Sherlock blinked at Mrs Hudson, standing in the doorway of 221b. Her loud knocks had startled Sherlock from his thoughts, and he had barely gotten the chance to snuff out his  cigarette before she wrestled her way into the flat. </p><p>“I arrived about half an hour ago,” Sherlock answered, pausing as he looked at Mrs Hudson’s flushed face. “You’re upset. What’s happened?”</p><p>“John’s in the hospital, that’s what’s happened. They’ve been trying to reach you for hours; your phone goes straight to voicemail.”</p><p>“Hospital?”</p><p>“John’s cab was in an accident. Minor injuries, but John hit his head on the passenger window, so they wanted to make sure he didn’t have a concussion. He marked you as his emergency contact, Sherlock. They only called me because they couldn’t get a hold of you.”</p><p>Sherlock instinctively felt for his phone, buried deep in his trouser pocket, and a brick of dread sank in his stomach as he remembered he’d switched it off. His facial expression must have shown some kind of distress by the way that Mrs Hudson's own face softened. </p><p>"The nurse said he's in observation," she said, her voice slightly more tender. "I'm sure he's fine, but you should head over, dear."</p><p>Sherlock nodded almost mechanically as he grabbed his coat and swooped out of the front door, barely stopping to ask which hospital John had been taken to. He turned his phone back on in the cab, right after he sat down and told the driver to head to the Royal Free Hospital. With another pang of guilt, he saw that he had a new voicemail, and before he thought a moment more, he began to listen to the message.</p><p><em>New message, 1:07pm:</em> <b><em>Uh, hi, my name’s Peter. I’m a cabbie, I was driving your friend to </em></b><b><em>Baker Street?</em></b><b><em> I’m just calling to say we were in an accident, nothing major, and I’m about to take John to A&amp;E. He’s fine, I think, he just hit his head hard, and it’s company policy. We’re headed to the Royal Free Hospital, I guess we’ll meet you there?</em></b></p><p><em> New message, 1:53pm: </em> <b> <em>Hello, it’s Peter again. We’ve arrived, John’s just being triaged, and he keeps asking for you. I hope you get this soon.</em> </b></p><p><em> New message, 3:45pm: </em> <b> <em>Sherlock, I swear to God, you better be lying in a ditch somewhere unable to pick up. I sent Peter home, but they’re keeping me overnight and I need you here. Answer your damn phone. </em> </b></p><p>Shakily, Sherlock checked his missed calls: six from John’s phone, two from Lestrade, and one from Mrs Hudson’s landline. There was a single text from John, a three-digit number that Sherlock presumed was his room number. Nothing else. </p><p>Fuck. John was hurt. John had <em> needed </em> him, and where was he? Buying drugs. Buying drugs to keep his existential crisis at bay. His stupid, all-consuming crisis, and oh god — John was hurt. How could John be hurt? John wasn’t allowed to be injured; Sherlock was the one that delved headfirst into situations, John was the one that pulled him out. John was the safe one, the healthy one, the one that didn’t get into car accidents. </p><p>John couldn’t be hurt. He had survived Afghanistan and murderous cab drivers. The likes of Dr John Watson couldn't be taken out by a fender bender. </p><p>"We're here, buddy. Are you getting out or what?" </p><p>Sherlock blinked back into the present to the glare of his own cab driver. He tossed over some money before hopping out of the car and moving towards the entrance. Images of John in various states of pain flitted across his mind, and he felt the intense need to vomit. He took the stairs two steps at a time, growing impatient when the automatic doors took too long to open. Sherlock snapped John’s name at the receptionist, practically bursting into a run once he had the room and floor number.  </p><p>John was facing away from the door by the time Sherlock finally arrived. He was in a shared ward, but only half of the beds were full; an elderly lady in the far corner opposite John and a middle-aged gentleman near the door. They both glared as Sherlock burst through the door, but John didn’t so much as turn around. </p><p>“John?” Sherlock asked tentatively as he approached the bed. John finally looked up, disinterest plastered all over his face.</p><p>“Where have you been?” He mumbled into the pillow, glancing down again to stare at the wall.</p><p>“My phone was off. I’m sorry, John. I would have been here sooner—” </p><p>“Save it, Sherlock. I don’t care anymore.” </p><p>Sherlock perched on the chair next to the bed, desperately willing John to look at him again. He would have been here earlier if he had known. It couldn’t be his fault, if he didn’t have all the information.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Sherlock pressed, his eyes darting over the bed, almost expecting to see hidden medical equipment. There was nothing. </p><p>“I’m fine. Just bruised. They want to keep me overnight to make sure I didn’t damage anything, but I’m fine.” John shifted on the mattress, pulling up the sheets so they rested beneath his chin. “Tired, actually. Can you leave me to sleep?” </p><p>“Sure, but I’m staying here.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>The only sounds after that were the soft beeping of various medical machinery, and the occasional shuffling of the other patients in their beds. Sherlock watched John stay so remarkably still that he might as well have been a statue. Sherlock wanted to touch him but didn’t dare. He felt as if he was on the cusp of a rejection that would break whatever he and John still had. </p><p>To give himself something to do, he stood up and walked over to the foot of the bed to where John’s charts were located. The paperwork was settled onto a small clipboard, incredibly old fashioned, but still useful for the staff to look over John’s most recent care. With another twist of his gut, Sherlock read what was clearly John’s handwriting:</p><p>
  <em> Emergency Contact: Sherlock Holmes   Relationship: Boyfriend  </em>
</p><p><em> Boyfriend. </em>The magnitude of John’s scribbled proclamation was so painfully raw and real that it almost tore through Sherlock’s resolve not to fall apart completely. Not here. He needed to be strong for John. Prove that he was better than the person John thought just didn’t want to answer his phone calls. </p><p>But perhaps he wasn’t a better person. Perhaps this was as far as Sherlock could evolve, even with someone as bright and beautiful as John by his side. Alone was what Sherlock knew and understood. It fit him; kept him secure and whole. Alone protected him.</p><p>John deserved better.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Fifty-Six Pages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>John: Present day</b> </span>
</p><p>In a way, it’s fitting that John feels as if he’s about to step into a minefield. His movements are slow and deliberate, and even Harry gives him an extra long hug before he heads out to the cab bound for Baker Street. Her bright blue eyes are slightly wetter when they break away, but her smile is as warm and supportive as ever. </p><p>It’s raining off and on as they wind through London’s busy streets. The cab driver’s music of choice is classical violin. John tries not to envision Sherlock’s lean silhouette, surrounded by moonlight, as each of the pieces play, but the images are already there and refuse to leave. </p><p>In hindsight, John wishes he had texted Sherlock that he was coming this evening. He had made a few attempts to send out a quick message, but how the hell do you begin to justify or apologise with just a few sentences? Instead, he scrolls back through the last of Sherlock’s messages. Each text's emotional weight swings wildly, and John feels his chest ache at his returned silence.</p><p>
  <b>So, you’re with Harry. SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>If you wish to talk, I’m still awake. Always awake  nowadays. SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>The case has hit a standstill. My mind is beyond broken. I can’t think anymore. SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I need you here. It hurts to breathe. SH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>John. SH</b>
</p><p>How is John supposed to even begin dissecting the last message?</p><p>The first few days had brought a flurry of Sherlock’s mystifying words, followed by eery quiet. Lestrade had occasionally rung John and assured him that Sherlock was still functioning as well as could be expected, although it was clear that he was smoking again. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. </p><p>John instructs the cab to pull over a couple of minutes away from Baker Street. His palms are beginning to sweat, and he still hasn’t decided what to say. Hell, he’s not even sure this is a good idea. His body moves on autopilot, tracing those familiar steps from Melcombe Street down to the corner of Baker Street, whilst his mind desperately tries to think of something to say. </p><p>He runs out of pavement, and suddenly the door looms in front of him, the black gloss shining in the evening lamplight. John curls and uncurls his hands, pushing away the growing trepidation in his stomach. This was a mistake, he shouldn’t have come here, this is only going to end in flames and —</p><p>He knocks on the door. </p><p>A  rush of footfall echoes in  the hallway behind, and before John has time to think, the door is opening, revealing a stress-ridden Sherlock on the other side. John stares for a moment, trying to take it all in. Sherlock’s curls look as if they haven’t been properly styled for days. The cheekbones he adores are even more pronounced. When had Sherlock last eaten?</p><p>There’s a pause, a moment of silence as the pair acknowledge each other, before John’s mouth runs away with itself. </p><p>“I love you. God help me, I really do.”</p><p>John swallows hard as his eyes look up into Sherlock’s face. His heart flutters at how much he has missed that astounding face.</p><p>“I tried to stay away, I tried so hard, but not one day goes past where I don’t think of you.” John lets out a breath through his nose, forcing himself to stay focused on Sherlock. His face is drawn closed, giving John no indication of how the detective is reacting. “I went on a date, I tried to move on, but every time I close my eyes, all I see is you. I want <em> you</em>. I want to put the work in; I want to make this better.”</p><p>John wasn’t expecting so much silence, but that’s what Sherlock is giving him; that Cupid’s bow of a mouth dipping downward in the hint of a frown. John wonders if this means Sherlock wants him to continue or if he is processing the best way to throw him back out onto the street. The expression on his slender face is frustratingly neutral. </p><p>Eventually, Sherlock turns and walks back up the stairs, barely pausing to glance over his shoulder, in a clear instruction that John should follow. Once inside the sitting room, Sherlock takes his place by the window, glancing out onto the street and hiding his face. John desperately wants to spin him around, take that face in his hands and demand to know what the detective is thinking, but he refrains. The air is delicate; one wrong move and he could be back out on the pavement. </p><p>Thankfully, Sherlock finally opens his mouth and begins to speak. The words crackle in his throat as if saying each and every one of them is causing him a relentless amount of pain. </p><p>“In the last days, all I could think about was you. Where you were, who you were with, whether you were okay. Mrs Hudson threatened to evict me if I didn’t stop pacing the floor, and I’m only half certain she was joking.” Sherlock quickly looks over his shoulder before turning back to the window. “When we were together, I thought you distracted me. There was always a part of my brain focused on you, constantly rearranging data into my mind palace. But then you left, and I realised — I wasn’t distracted at all.  Your absence defined you; I hadn’t realised how much I relied on you until you were no longer there. You ground me, John. You keep me right.” John notices Sherlock’s hands flicker at his sides as if he is refraining from reaching out. John keeps his ground, his shoulders softening slightly at the honesty laced into Sherlock’s voice. He’s about to interrupt when Sherlock continues, “I was scared, so I pushed you away. I ignored how I was feeling in the hopes that it would disappear. Because I rarely ever feel like this, and the few times I have, I ended up getting hurt. I didn’t want you to hurt me, so I shut you out. Placed you in a box that I could easily manage, and in the process — I lost you.”</p><p>John’s heart is racing too fast for it to be medically safe. The weariness in Sherlock’s tone creates shadows over everything in the sitting room, a darkness no amount of soap and water will be able to wash away. With a twist in John’s gut, he curses himself for not reaching out over the week he'd been gone. How the hell could someone so cruel call themselves a doctor?</p><p>“You can’t lose what’s always here,” John answers simply. “That’s the point, Sherlock. I was just too stupid and stubborn to realise it until now. I was scared, too. Terrified that loving you would be too much to defend and explain. I was so focused on protecting my own sense of who the fuck I was that I didn’t embrace who I really <em> am </em> . I thought that it was enough to just show you that I loved you, and <em> piss off </em> to anyone else, but it’s more than that. Love can’t be placed in a cage in the dark and expect to survive, no matter how much attention you give it. I was wrong for not treating our relationship with the respect it deserved, and too late in my placations of showing it later. The restaurant...the small asides to you to keep our status quiet...they were wrong and painful, and I am so sorry for doing all of that to you, Sherlock.”</p><p>Finally, Sherlock turns to face John, and John can tell that he’s listening. <em> Really </em> listening. The type of listening that John rarely sees, but savours with his entire being. Those dazzling eyes alight with formulaic understanding as pieces of a puzzle are formed from particles in the air that only Sherlock can orchestrate into a language of explanation. It’s the same rapt attention that John felt during that initial meeting, where he offered his mobile to the man that now held his heart in such lovely hands. </p><p>“I can’t say that it’s okay because it’s not,” Sherlock eventually admits. “I wanted to be okay with it, but all my life, no one has wanted me. Not the <em> real </em> me. Not the one who doesn’t always understand human emotion, or who keeps fingers in the fridge. Not the one who can talk, in detail, about all the different types of tobacco ash but has no clue about the solar system. Until you.” John’s heart leaps in his chest, remembering that day. “You walked into that lab and you wanted <em> me</em>; severed fingers and all. Until suddenly, you didn’t. And it hurt, more than it ever had before, and for so long I couldn’t understand why. So, I did what I always did. I analysed the data. Treated the subject as a suspect in a crime, and proceeded to theorise their behaviours and actions to the inescapable conclusion.”</p><p>They’ve been refraining for months, using stunted communication and guarding their secrets close, but now they’ve started, there’s no stopping. Words pour from their mouths like water, the dam of insecurity finally broken. Every thought, every word that should have been said long before is being said now. </p><p>“And what was the conclusion? Did you solve it?”</p><p>“Signs of fluctuating euphoria and arousal when you are near me or within certain rooms of my mind palace. The incessant need for you to be happy, regardless of whether I am involved in that happiness or not. Idealisation of many different types of lives with you by my side. The necessity of touch even when we are close. There’s more, of course. There’s always more, but there is sufficient data for me to deduce that I...Sherlock Holmes, am hopelessly in love with you.”</p><p>Although, realistically, he knows this, the sentence still takes John’s breath away. He almost strides forward and closes the gap between them, wanting to physically reciprocate the statement of affection — but he catches himself at the last moment. This is a big step. Huge, especially for Sherlock, but love isn’t a magic cure. They need more. They need the groundwork to be laid before they begin to devour each other, running on the fumes of lust. </p><p>Instead of lunging forward to kiss and hold Sherlock, John stays put. His body trembles and he grabs the back of his chair for balance, forcing himself to remain still. To get everything out on the table before he shuts down like he usually does. Like they both usually do. </p><p>“How long have you…” he begins, and his eyes flit around Sherlock’s face. The mask of indifference he so expertly wears has not only slipped away, but is shattered in bits all over the floor of 221b. </p><p>“Since not long after the car accident.” John sucks in a breath. That was months ago. “The day that you left, I went...to put it mildly, somewhat mental. I was certain that it was shock at first. Felt like all the classic markers of it, anyway. I needed to talk to you. Convince you that what you thought about the spreadsheet was wrong but, upon reflection and playing back the incident through my mind palace, I could have easily come to the same theory. John...you were <em> never </em> an experiment. My methods and secrecy were... misguided, sometimes horribly so, but you <em> must </em> believe me that hurting you was never—”</p><p>“I know. I get that now, after having time to think things through. If anything, what you did, even though unconventional, was...flattering? To be so important to garner a spreadsheet by Sherlock Holmes…”</p><p>“Fifty-six pages,” Sherlock says, the twitch of a smile appearing on his face. “Documentation on various ways of kissing you, holding you...what makes you laugh the hardest. The different shades of your eye colour when you climax...you are endlessly fascinating, John.”</p><p>John knows that his cheeks must be stunningly pink with hearing the compliment, but he barely cares. </p><p>“Did it help? The spreadsheet...before I overreacted about it, that is.”</p><p>Sherlock’s expression goes nearly apologetic. Yet another rare sight.</p><p>“Yes and no. It definitely helped me keep a lot of variables in one area, so I could create better overall conditions for your enjoyment and pleasure...and mine as well, with the discovery of praise and what it does to my overall arousal. Interestingly enough, you have been the first partner I’ve had that has awakened that side of my stimulation.”</p><p>John can’t help but frown, imagining which area of the body he would punch each of Sherlock’s former lovers first for not doing what should come naturally with someone as brilliant as Sherlock. Sherlock gives a small chuckle and reaches out. His fingers interlace with John’s, and the first touch sends a warm glow through John. His body has been aching for this, every cell experiencing withdrawal symptoms at being so far apart from the detective. This touch feels like a breath of fresh air.</p><p>“The ones before you<em> ...they </em> were the experiments,” Sherlock whispers. “Collections of data and formulas that passed through my life. I have no ill will towards what I learned from them. They were stops along the way. It is <em> you </em> that guides me, John. My conductor of light.”</p><p>For a second, John thinks it’s finished, that Sherlock is about to come back to him and they will get a second chance. He takes a tentative step forwards, ready to pull the detective into his arms, but freezes as Sherlock recoils. It’s subtle, most people would miss it, but John notices. Sherlock draws into himself, pulling their hands apart, away from the prospect of further touch, and something rips inside of John. He barely hears the next whispered words, and each one bores into his skin like needles. </p><p>“I understand now that I love you, but that doesn’t change anything. I don’t think I can do this again. Not if we’re doomed to fail.”</p><p>The words sound as if they are causing Sherlock physical pain to say them. The bleakness of the admission covers the entire room in a soft desperation that might be destroying John from the inside out, and yet John finds himself nodding in agreement. </p><p>“You’re right,” John says, so softly that he can barely hear his voice over his own racing heartbeat. Sherlock quickly looks away, but John doesn’t miss the tears in those magnificent eyes. </p><p>There is silence that waits there, but neither of them seems to know how to break it until John eventually says what should have been said a long time before now. </p><p>“I’m sorry for not being there for you,” he begins, and Sherlock shifts his gaze back to him once more. “I’m sorry for holding you to unrealistic standards. I know you. Before all this, I met the most incredible man at St Barts, and he asked me to come live with him. And I said yes, not because I wanted the perfect boyfriend, but because I like the man I met. I stayed, every day, because you were my friend. You are perfect as you are, and I chose you. When you finally kissed me, it was everything I wanted, but somewhere along the line, I stopped seeing you for <em> you. </em>I became obsessed with myself and my own insecurities, and I expected you to be everything I couldn’t. I hid you, not because I was ashamed, but because I couldn’t be proud of myself.”</p><p>“John—” </p><p>“You catalogue data. You try to make sense of the world by reducing it to maths and formula, predictable patterns that you can deduce and understand. You made a career off it, for Christ’s sake. I know that. I overreacted when I should have known better.”</p><p>“But John, you deserve better. I can’t be the person you need. And that’s fine. I’ve accepted that.” </p><p>“No, Sherlock. You are exactly the person I need. I have felt more alive with you than I ever have, and I am prepared to do anything to make this work. I want <em> you, </em>so I will climb mountains if that’s what I need to do to make you happy.”</p><p>Sherlock watches John for just enough time for John to realise what the detective is doing. He’s seen it before. Sherlock going over all of the information — old and new — and deducing the best resolution. It’s a waiting game, but it isn’t the first time John has had to be patient. This is worth it. This will always be worth it. </p><p>“It seems as if our relationship is destined to be improbable, but never impossible, John. That I can embrace and accept, as long as you do as well.”</p><p>John is laughing, giddy beyond relief, and before he connects what his body is doing, he is holding Sherlock in his arms and feels Sherlock holding him back. The deep baritone chuckles are the best and only sound that John needs to hear for the rest of his life. </p><p>“Of course I embrace and accept...idiot.”</p><p>They spend the next few hours reacquainting themselves with the other, letting fingers brush through hair, pressing kisses to every inch of bare skin. They don’t undress, never allowing the moment to broach from affection to lust; they simply explore every inch of each other, whispering promises into the dusk. At some point, they fall into bed, still holding on for dear life, afraid to let each other go. </p><p>John observes how the light in Sherlock’s bedroom turns different shades of blue as the night continues to creep across them. All the while, Sherlock lays beside him, occasionally pressing a kiss here or there. Their legs tangle around each other, and John is suddenly hit with how much he has missed these moments. No sex or case to keep them distracted. Only the sensation of being in each other’s arms. </p><p> There’s more left to say, because there’s always more, but Sherlock is the one who speaks up first. </p><p>“I feel that I should apologise for not telling you about the spreadsheet. Even though I had not theorised your specific reaction...in hindsight, it would have been more honest to be more transparent.”</p><p>“Thank you for saying that,” John replies, then he tilts his head up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “And...I’m sorry that it took me so long to see the power of me not calling you my partner. I didn’t see why it was such a big issue until after the restaurant, but when you got out of the cab...I was so terrified that my stubbornness had pushed you to leave me. I fought to show you after that night that you did matter. That I was <em> proud </em> to be your partner. Even when I was in hospital after the car accident, when I was so angry at you for not answering your bloody phone, you were the only person I wanted to see.”</p><p>“You wrote that I was your boyfriend on the emergency contact...even after I took so long to arrive.”</p><p>John opens his mouth to make an excuse for Sherlock’s absence. That he was in the middle of a murder investigation, and John was ultimately fine and just being kept for observation. However, before John can manage to say anything else, Sherlock takes hold of John’s hand with his own and gives them a gentle squeeze. John patiently waits for Sherlock to speak, pushing down the anxieties growing inside. They may be making an effort to communicate, but that doesn’t make it easy. Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and turns to face the ceiling, as if remembering some important information. </p><p>“I bought drugs, John. When you were in the hospital, I was buying drugs. Do you still want to be with me?” His voice is soft and tentative, as if anything too loud will scare John off for good. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“How can you say that? I’m a mess, John. You don’t even know why I bought them.” </p><p>“The fact that you told me, is everything I need to know.” John places a hand on Sherlock’s cheek and gently pulls it towards him. Sherlock’s eyes are pinched with worry, and John delicately kisses his eyebrows, trying to soothe it away. </p><p>He considers brushing past it, leaving things there and trusting Sherlock to do whatever he needs to do. Eventually, John holds his hand out, palm up, and Sherlock deduces what he wants without even asking. The detective reaches under the bed, and there’s a harsh clunk as a floorboard is pulled from its place. Before long, a small bag of white powder is placed gently into John’s outstretched hand. </p><p>“Thank you.” </p><p>It doesn’t take long for John to flush the substance down the toilet and crawl back into the warm bed, and when he does, it feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. They’ll need to talk about it more — God, they need to talk about a lot of things — but it can wait. For now, he just wants to stay in the detective’s arms, protected. </p><p>“Can we start again?” John whispers into Sherlock’s chest. There’s a soft vibration as Sherlock gives a quiet hum in response. “Not a <em> true </em> do-over. I never want to forget all the memories we’ve already made, even the bad ones. Just — can we start from the beginning? You and me, in a lab, chasing down the rest of the world.” </p><p>“I’d like that.” John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice, and it sends a warmth through his heart. “Properly, this time?” </p><p>“Yeah. Avoid our mistakes.”</p><p>“Okay then. You and me, against the rest of the world. Starting over.” There’s a moment of comfortable silence, and John counts Sherlock’s breaths, watching the gentle rise and fall of his stomach. There’s a lot of work to do, many difficult conversations to have and boundaries to create, but they’re here. Finally, they are here, and that is enough. </p><p>John watches as something clicks behind Sherlock’s eyes, and a broad smile grows across his face. A question forms on his lips, an echo of the simple sentence that started it all. </p><p>“Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. It’s never the fall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Sherlock: Six Months earlier</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John barely uttered a word the following day, staying stoically silent throughout his discharge and during the ride home. It wasn’t a reaction that Sherlock had expected at all, and it was more concerning than any of the times he had been shouted at by John. Lestrade picked them up from the hospital and tried to make polite conversation, but gave up quickly once he realised he was getting nothing but one-liners in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dropped them off outside Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson greeted them, fawning over John and asking endless questions about what happened. Sherlock watched John wave her off and make his way upstairs, still not breaking his silence. Sherlock stayed to answer her questions, promising to let her know when John was up for visitors, before following the doctor up the stairs to flat B. When he entered the living room, John was nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock moved to the kitchen and started the kettle to fill the flat with some kind of noise. The quietness never bothered him before, but now all of the silence felt cold and strangely foreboding. He also couldn’t shake off the sensation that John wanted to be anywhere but here, and how much that gave him a need to fix everything he could. He turned back to the living room and winced at the state of it. Papers from the copycat murders case blanketed the sofa and coffee table, and how could Sherlock have left the flat like this? John liked neat and orderly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At once, Sherlock worked on gathering up case files and notes and placing them back in their correct boxes. Then he moved to dusting and wiping off any clear surface before realising that he needed to get back to the tea. His hurried footsteps were a stark contrast to John’s slower movements upstairs. Whenever Sherlock heard John walk, he froze and strained to listen. There was a necessity in deducing John’s most likely activities now more than ever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, John came down the stairs wearing grey jogging pants and a white cotton shirt. The outline of his dog tags underneath the shirt gave Sherlock’s heart a momentary flutter,  his memory floating back to the last time they had sex. John’s cheeks and chest flushed with pleasure as Sherlock watched the dog tags sway with each steady thrust. It seemed so long ago that they shared that time together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You made tea again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, but didn’t meet John’s eyes. Instead, he focused all of his attention on a small spot on the kitchen counter that mocked his attempt to clean it. It was most likely from a blood spatter experiment that had gotten out of hand, but dealing with the stubbornness of plasma was elementary compared to relationships. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was moving again, his bare feet making soft steps as he headed into the kitchen to finish off the tea. If habit dictated, he would spend the next half an hour sitting at the table and scrolling through his mobile to the local news. Usually, Sherlock took that time to sneak peeks at the spreadsheet and add additional notes, but he had a much more important plan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cocaine needed to be moved to a secure location now that John was home. It was ludicrous to think that Sherlock could admit to buying it, even if he chose not to use it. John would be understandably furious, even if Sherlock argued about the benefits it gave him during casework. Luckily, Sherlock had a much better hiding spot than the current one, but he had to be sure that John was settled and unlikely to follow him before Sherlock changed its location. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure enough, John stayed in  the kitchen, and Sherlock picked up one of the more promising casefile boxes and headed into his bedroom. Once he was inside, he closed the door with a snap and pulled out the small bag from inside the wardrobe. The contents were still sealed and usable if the need arose. Sherlock swiftly headed over to the loose floorboard near the bed and pulled it open, quickly placing the package inside the hollow space beneath. It was unlikely John knew about this specific hiding spot, but he would have checked it before now if he did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the baggie was safely hidden away, he sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled out the case files. He needed to spend enough time in here not to arouse suspicion, and besides, they still had a killer to catch. Lestrade didn’t have any new information for them, so the files would have to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock studied the documents as the room grew dark around him, the soft glow of the streetlamps outside casting elongated shadows inside the room. He worked until his eyes could no longer focus and his legs had begun to cramp, slowly sifting through all of the information and comparing it to the evidence he had stored in his mind palace. The solution was there, on the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, he couldn’t ignore the pain in his legs any longer, so he stood, stretching them out and packing the files back into the box. Tea was in order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he entered the kitchen, John was still sitting at the table, a half-empty mug of tea in front of him. He was staring blankly at it, clearly lost in his own head, absentmindedly tapping the rim of the cup. Sherlock flicked the kettle on and watched John from the corner of his eye, trying to deduce what was going on inside his head. Was this about yesterday? Sherlock knew he had messed up, but he hadn’t realised how badly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fight, flight or freeze. The most common ways that organisms responded to threats. John was emotionally cornered by what Sherlock had failed to do time and time again, not take John into account at the most needed moments. John was a soldier; he’d been systematically trained to not freeze in combat, so that action was the least likely. Fight or flight then. Sherlock knew his preferred method if the roles were reversed. He had run from most of his problems for years, so why would this be any exception?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John, however, was still a mystery Sherlock was yearning to uncover with the entirety of his body and mind, even now as he continued to stare down at the mug of tea and tap away at the rim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fight, or flight? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock sunk into a chair, opposite John, a fresh mug of tea steaming in his hand. He pulled at the nearest box of files, having no intention to go back to work, but needing something to occupy his hands so John wouldn’t realise he was being watched. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he feel alone? Sherlock knew he had been absorbed by the case recently, and leaving John alone all day yesterday wouldn’t have helped matters. Sherlock had always taken it for granted that John was the only one that knew what he was really thinking. Everyone else took Sherlock at face value, finding his abrasiveness and dedication to The Work cold and sociopathic, but John knew better. John had always seen the man beneath the mask, no matter how much Sherlock had tried to shut him out to begin with. But now, had John become one of them? Did he fail to understand that despite the storm in Sherlock’s head, despite the need to solve this case as soon as possible, he really did care? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never wanted John to leave. As much as he infuriated him sometimes and disrupted his concentration, he couldn’t imagine going back to a life without the army-doctor. He wasn’t sure he could even function. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Sherlock watched John, sitting at the table, swirling his tea in his mug, he was suddenly hit with one more deduction than he’d been expecting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was in love</span>
  <em>
    <span>. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The war in his head, his physical and emotional reactions, his constant distraction from the case, it was because he had allowed himself to </span>
  <em>
    <span>care. </span>
  </em>
  <span>To fall in love with another person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react to the deduction. Most people spent their lives searching for the emotion, constantly seeking out others in the vain hope that they could fall in love, like adrenaline junkies searching for a high. But Sherlock had never been most people, and he’d spent his waking moments rejecting the feeling as much as possible. He had felt this before, years ago, in the arms of Victor Trevor, but that had been squashed the moment it started — by both the giver and the receiver. Lying in the broken remains of that friendship, Sherlock had vowed never to let himself fall foul of that mistake again. Yet, here he was, betrayed by his mind once again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ideally, he wanted to spend the next few days holed up in his mind palace, deciding the best course of action and verifying that his findings were accurate, but there was no time for that now. John was hurting. People liked that sort of thing, being told they were loved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could tell John and work the rest out later. The most important thing was making him happy; Sherlock could build his walls up again later, after he knew that John had forgiven him for being distant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock took a deep breath, preparing himself. This could solve everything. This could bring John back to him and patch up the many holes in their relationship. Everything would be fine, if John knew what was going on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t look up, instead he focused on the nearest box of files, worried that if he saw John, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John, I—” he was interrupted before he could get the words out, and he swallowed them, cursing at himself for not speaking sooner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t working.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The statement was encrusted with a finality that no amount of rationalisation could dismiss. His deduction about John just needing validation of his importance was painfully inaccurate, and with that, everything came crashing down. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>John: Present day</strong>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the days after John’s return to Baker Street, they talk a lot. John hadn’t realised it was possible for anyone to talk this much, but it feels liberating, being able to say whatever comes into his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock explains what happened that day when he’d almost fallen off the bandwagon, even though it makes John’s fists curl and his heart ache. Instead John releases his pain in much more constructive ways, and even though it hurts, he tells Sherlock about all the terrible thoughts that went through his head after the car accident, and how much he needs to go back to therapy regarding what he now realises is indeed internalised biphobia. Sherlock is next to him on the sofa, holding his hand, when the call is made to Ella.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baby steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first few weeks, they don’t have sex. They sleep in the same bed, reclaiming the space of romantic intimacy, but neither crosses the line into something more physical. They had decided, on that first night, to take things slow — ease back into the relationship rather than dive headfirst like they had the first time. John is sure that was one of the first red flags; they assumed the roles of an old married couple rather than exploring the newness of the relationship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After his first therapy appointment, John surprises Sherlock with dinner at Angelo’s. They take the table by the window, where it all began, and John makes sure there are plenty of candles for the table. It’s not the solution to his fears; John still has nervous butterflies the entire time, wondering what the people at the neighbouring tables are thinking, but it’s a step. A promise that, despite everything, he is trying. He wants to be here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A break in the case and in their mutually agreed celibacy happens in the space of an evening. The sex is beyond incredible, and John thinks he may have blacked out for a moment. His breathing is still laboured as he pulls Sherlock  into another scorching kiss. Sherlock moans in return, and has probably added a couple of new scratches onto John’s back. Another medal John will wear with all of the other scars created from a life with Sherlock Holmes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs as he manoeuvres himself to Sherlock’s side and giggles at the dishevelled look of both of them. He hasn’t felt this properly debauched in quite a long while, and Sherlock rolls his eyes before twisting around and kissing John once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God...how is it possible that I love you this much?” he whispers, and Sherlock smiles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If amenable, I can calculate the variables involved in how you came to the deduce that your sentiment had blossomed into—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John silences him with yet another kiss, and then they make love again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later that night, unable to sleep, John opens Sherlock’s laptop and pulls up the spreadsheet. It’s still there, but there has been no new information inputted since the night he’d left. John makes a copy, not wanting to disrupt Sherlock's formulas before changing some of the headings and adding comments to the existing information. He marks breath play as ‘OFF LIMITS’ but adds a new heading, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and writes down as many sentences and topics as he can think of. Sherlock needs this, it’s how his brain works, and John can either resist or lean into it. This way, at least he has some semblance of control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He also adds another column titled ‘Date ideas’. John adds a few suggestions, conscious that he wants them, Sherlock especially, to intertwine this with the rest of their life, rather than their relationship consisting only of sex. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is about to close the laptop when a very familiar scene envelops in front of his eyes, but with a few jutting differences. Sherlock charges into the room with his eyes wide, and John is reminded of the last time he had Sherlock’s laptop open. However, this time Sherlock is completely nude and smiling broadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock,” John begins, somewhat baffled at his boyfriend’s expression, but then connects the look he is being given. “Wait...you solved it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is answered by Sherlock nodding so hard John can’t help but chuckle at the shaking curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twins, John,” Sherlock shouts, his arms outstretched as if about to take a bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Twins,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sherlock repeats as if the extra emphasis will jolt John out of his confusion. “Pierce has a twin. Don’t you see? It’s obvious. I can’t believe it took me this long to consider it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you always tell me it can’t be twins! It’s never twins!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scoffs and places his hands on his hips. The indignant look on his face loses some of its power with his nudity, and John giggles again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>usually</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t, but this is a rare exception. Every once in a while the planets align and there’s no such thing as coincidences and so on and so forth. You’re ruining my moment with talk of past situations, John. I just need you to listen to my theory, say that I’m brilliant and then call Lestrade. Is that too much to expect?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clearly not,” John says with another giggle, and closes the laptop to give his partner his undivided attention. “So, how did you figure that Pierce has a twin and that they were involved?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s shoulders relax and he begins to pace as he speaks. His gait is gorgeous even without his coat, and John enjoys watching each and every part of his body as he moves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lestrade mentioned in passing that Pierce has been in therapy for years over some childhood trauma. It was brought up in one of his follow up interviews. At the time, I paid very little mind to this information. Many people go to therapy for a number of reasons, but after your decision to see Ella, I started to think about why Pierce would bring up his therapy. It only made sense if he was dealing with similar stressors now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pauses to give John time to ask questions, which is nice for a change, but John motions for Sherlock to continue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whilst going through the files from the previous case for what felt like the thousandth time, I recalled that there were some notes from Pierce's mother about how she and her family had moved from the family home. Pierce had a complete meltdown because it was like </span>
  <em>
    <span>another time in his life he had lost something he loved</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Childhood trauma and loss. According to everything I read about Pierce's family, he had a relatively good childhood before the age of five. I made a few calls…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meaning you called Mycroft…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, fine...he owes us both favours for what he said to you at the surgery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What he said to me was accurate,” John replies grimly, “Even though he has the tact of a donkey’s arse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s lips twitch in what John is sure is a smile before moving on. “I called Mycroft and got records connected with Pierce’s youth. At the age of five, he was told that he had a twin brother who had been put up for adoption, as his poor single mother couldn't afford to take care of both of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John almost jumps out of the chair in shock. “At five,” he shouts. “Why in the world would—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agree that it was too early to tell a child something like that,” Sherlock agrees, “and thus  Pierce ended up in therapy until his early teens. According to additional records, the twin was named George Pierce before he was adopted. His name is now Christopher Bennett. Pierce reconnected with him in adulthood, but never told his mother. The keys he left were a symbol; the loss of his family home. Bennett continued leaving them as a show of solidarity to his twin, and he is left-handed, so he placed the new rash of victims' keys in the right pockets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was correct about the left-handed thing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were,” Sherlock says, beaming at him. “Here...I’ll show you what Bennett looks like. Mycroft sent me  -- “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock pauses, and his eyes go from John’s face to the closed laptop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just…” John begins, but Sherlock waves his hand at the start of the explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in love with you, and I plan to be with you for the rest of my life, John. I’m sure that whatever you were using my laptop for was important. Besides that, I use yours so much that it would be hypocritical for me to not give you the same trust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John knows that he must be staring at Sherlock, but how can he help it with so many beautiful admissions all at once. He feels delightfully blindsided.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” Sherlock grumbles, but there is a loving tone underneath it. “Now, give me the laptop and I’ll show you how much Bennett and Pierce look alike, even after all these years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They arrest Christopher Bennett the following day, after spending the night at the yard, helping Lestrade track him down. He’s not as talkative as his brother, but once Sherlock knows his identity he finds enough evidence to tie him to each of the murders. Bennett had known about Pierce’s murders, he’d even helped plan a few, but Michael hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed not to know anything about a copycat. It appeared that Christopher had gone rogue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels a comfortable wave of satisfaction as they walk through the door of 221B. The case is finally closed, pending the court trial, and he and Sherlock are in a better place than they’ve ever been. They’re not perfect yet, they still fight and make mistakes, but at least now they talk about it. Sherlock insists that John tells him whenever something is bothering him, rather than waiting until he becomes overwhelmed, and in return, John asks Sherlock to make it clear when he needs time alone, either for a case or for himself. Between them, they fall into a routine, rewiring all their old habits without changing the fundamental nature of their relationship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry starts to visit a few times a month, and she and Sherlock get on like a house on fire. While John appreciates their new closeness, he’s glad she’s not there every week; there’s only so much of Sherlock and Harry’s wit he can take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, John feels as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, holding his breath until one of them slips up and falls into the Sherlock and John of before. But as weeks, then months, pass, John lets himself relax, finally believing that this could be it. After so long bringing out the worst in each other, falling apart in all the worst ways, they’ve managed to settle for something far more healthy. And during one lazy weekend in November, as they mark their first anniversary, John realises that they’ve fallen for each other all over again. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! We hope you’ve enjoyed reading our fic baby, we’ve had so much fun writing this story. </p><p>We love each and every one of your comments, thank you for all your kind words 🥰</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857582">Cover | Together We Fell</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant">allsovacant</a>
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